


more than you bargain for

by evawrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, I think?, Romance, Slow Burn, alternative universe, an ''might have to marry my best friend but gonna fall in love with his mother instead'' au, bellamione undertones, but nothing really happens, hermione is a pureblood & ravenclaw, there are chrtistmasy stuff in the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evawrites/pseuds/evawrites
Summary: “If you go and Narcissa, Draco, and Lucius choose you, but you realize you don’t want to marry Draco, we won’t make you do that. All I’m asking of you is to give it a try,” he paused, tapping his fingers on his knee, and then added as an afterthought, “Who knows, you might get even more than you bargain for. Life tends to have an interesting sense of humor, you know.”Or,Hermione Nott, a pureblood Ravenclaw, becomes a candidate for the future wife of her best friend, Draco Malfoy. But how complicated will things get when Hermione inevitably falls in love with Narcissa?
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 144
Kudos: 280





	1. a letter to hermione

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellatrxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatrxx/gifts).



> Hello, everyone. I hope someone finds it worth reading and waiting for. As always, I can't promise lots of updates, but what I can promise is:
> 
> • a lot of little details  
> • very thought out characters and storylines  
> • metaphors that are REALLY spot on  
> • the slowest burn 
> 
> A special thank you to Helena, who literally resurrected my passion for this fic just by loving my writing so fully.

“Oh my fucking Merlin, Mione!” Pansy shouted, waltzing into the Ravenclaw girls’ bedroom as if she owned the place, with a radiant smile plastered across her face and a scroll of parchment in her right hand. The black-haired witch ran towards her, jumping onto the bed and actually squeaking from some kind of bewildered excitement. Hermione was so amazed by the sudden and rather intense display of emotions that she didn’t even have it in her to lecture Pansy on the _Hogwarts, A History_ book falling to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

“How did you even get in, Parkinson?” They heard soon afterward, and both turned their heads to the third-year girl whose bed was right next to Hermione’s.

“And here we go again.” Pansy rolled her eyes in a rather non-aristocratic way, angering the girl even more. “As I’ve been telling you every fucking time, your precious gargoyle’s riddles are not that hard for anyone with a brain. And even if I had to blow the poor thing up to share some important news with my best friend, I would do it. So you better shut it before I blow _you_ up. Understood?” she asked with a mischievous grin.

Hermione tugged on her best friend’s sleeve to get her attention. As soon as Pansy’s eyes laid on her, they softened, and the slight glimmering in them had returned. 

“What happened, Pans? What got you so excited?”

Pansy drew out her wand and cast a silencing charm, glaring at the third-year girl one more time, just in case. After that, she handed Hermione the scroll of parchment and the envelope. The trademark was so recognizable that it took her less than a second to identify the sender, and suddenly the brunette knew the contents of the letter even without reading it. She caressed the blood-red, broken stamp with a cursive M on it and started reading. Soon afterward, her eyes widened in surprise, even though it was the foremost thing she expected to see. 

“Is that—” Hermione half-asked, not fully knowing why. It certainly was. Here it was, written in black ink on the dirty yellow of parchment. It couldn’t possibly be anything else in the world, both Muggle and Wizarding. 

“Yes! _Yes!_ ” Pansy cried out, leaning forward somewhat eagerly and looking through the letter upside down as if she needed the confirmation that it was indeed happening. 

“Did you know?” Hermione inquired hesitantly. It was a serious matter for all pure-blooded children like them, especially for the girls. While the boys usually had a say and the right to refuse, they most certainly didn’t. The letter hadn’t meant anything just yet, but it had the potential to change her best friend’s life. She just wanted to know that Pansy was on board with every last bit of all this. Even if it seemed like it, Hermione still needed some sort of confirmation. She certainly wasn’t going to accept squeaking as one. 

“Yes—I mean, _no_ , but yes. I—I’m sorry, I’m still trying to process the whole thing, you know. I ran all the way from the dungeons to tell you.” Pansy breathed in and out a couple of times, steadying herself. “I did know mom and dad were making some arrangements—I’m turning eighteen soon, after all—but I had absolutely _no_ idea they were discussing it with _them_. But what I mean is—it’s perfect, right? Can you believe my luck? Can you believe it?”

“It really is perfect,” Hermione told her sincerely, the heavy weight of worry bouncing off her shoulders and dissolving into thin air. She grinned, her smile as wide as her best friend’s. “I hope they choose you. It would be a win-win for everyone. I mean, you’re a Parkinson, and you’re already best friends, and in our fourth year, literally everyone thought you were dating—”

“Salazar, don’t,” Pansy muttered, covering her face with her hands for a few seconds. “I couldn’t walk the halls without whistles for three months. I’d prefer to get a whole year of detention from Snape than to remember all of this.”

“Okay, okay, I’m dropping the subject,” Hermione relented, raising her hands in retreat. “What I meant to say was—I really hope you’ll be happy. Both of you.”

Her chest tightened as if held by someone’s steady hands, and she could tell there were unshed tears in her eyes: Pansy’s face suddenly became much blurrier than it usually was. It was somewhat weird in their society—being happy about something you had almost no say in. Yet, it was looking like her best friend had won the lottery of love. Hermione couldn’t possibly be jealous of that, but there was a small part of her that entertained herself with the idea that maybe one day, it would be her. She wasn’t so foolish as to hope, though. 

“Oh, Mione,” Pansy whispered, taking the letter and throwing it away on the bed as if it didn’t matter at all when they both knew it did. The black-haired witch pulled her into a tight embrace, and they sat like that for quite some time. Shortly after, all of the girls, even the annoying third-year, had left the room to go to the Great Hall for dinner. 

When they parted, Pansy quickly wiped her tears away and smiled, her nose scrunching just a little bit as it always did. Hermione grinned back, but before she could say anything, they both were startled by the muffled squeaking sound coming from outside of the room. She frowned but got up and hurried to the window, opening it carefully. There was Merlin, her snowy white owl, clutching a few letters and the latest issues of _Witch Weekly_ and _The Daily Prophet_. She gathered the mail, petting the owl as a thank you, and closed the window. She got back to her bed, sitting at the edge of it and looking through letters and names until she stumbled upon the most unexpected one, but the most famous in the Wizarding World. Her breath hitched when she saw the same blood-red stamp with a cursive _M_ on it she had seen not so long ago. 

“Mione, is everything o—Oh. _Oh!_ Salazar’s snakes, is that—” Pansy mumbled, shocked and wide-eyed. They sat in silence once again, both looking at the letter in Hermione’s hands as if it would eat both of them alive as soon as they opened it.

Suddenly the silencing charm was gone, and Hermione caught a glimpse of platinum-blond hair right in front of her. 

“Merlin, it’s so good you’re both here. Hermione, I wanted to—” Draco looked down at the letter both girls had been staring at and realized that he was late. He swallowed hard, watching as his friend broke the stamp and started reading it out loud.

_Dear Ms. Hermione Abigail Nott,_

_This letter hereby confirms that you were chosen by representatives of the Malfoy family, Narcissa Malfoy née Black and Lucius Malfoy, and therefore is being considered as a possible future wife of Draco Abraxas Malfoy along with the three other young witches who attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Highlands of Scotland, Great Britain._

_It is essential to notice your parents have been notified and agreed to everything that would be happening from now on if you choose to accept a proposal of the Malfoy family._

_You are officially invited to spend three months of the summer break in Malfoy Manor after the end of your 6th year in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is being done in the best interests of both parties, the Nott and Malfoy families, since both ours and your bloodlines will benefit from such union. During your stay at Malfoy Manor, you will be able to familiarize yourself with Draco Abraxas Malfoy, the only heir to the Malfoy name, and enhance your mutual affection by socializing and consociating with him._

_I look forward to seeing you, Ms. Nott._

_With sincere appreciation,_

_Narcissa Malfoy née Black_

When Hermione was done, she finally looked up and met Draco’s blue eyes filled with worry and guilt. He looked much paler than usual. 

“I’m so sorry, Mione. They told me the names only an hour ago, and I left as soon as I could. I wanted to tell you myself, in person,” he admitted, desperation lacing his voice. “I didn’t even know my parents had been discussing it with yours. I only suspected the Parkinsons and Greengrasses to be involved, but yours—I swear I—”

She took his hand in hers, smiling soothingly. Draco shut his mouth this very second, and then opened it, and then shut it again as if he was trying to come up with a response. But his mind was blissfully blank and empty, and all the thoughts suddenly were transformed into emotions bubbling inside of him. 

“Draco, I promise I’m not mad at you. I couldn’t possibly be,” Hermione reassured him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. She turned to her left to look at Pansy, who watched the whole exchange with emotions and words and thoughts swirling inside of her entire body like a violent hurricane. “I guess we are rivals now, huh?” Hermione chuckled with only the faintest hint of sorrow.

“For the hand and the heart of Draco Malfoy,” Pansy announced dramatically, raising her chin as high as she could. “We fight till death. May the best duelist win.”

Three of them exchanged glances, which were so much more meaningful than the words could ever be, and then burst out in laughter. They laughed so hard and for so long that there were tears in the corners of Hermione’s eyes, and her stomach hurt, and there was a sharp pain in her cheekbones, but it didn’t really matter. None of it did. The only thing that mattered, though, were two of her best friends. Even if she might have to marry one of them.

* * *

Twenty-seven minutes. It took Hermione twenty-seven minutes to find Professor Flitwick and then almost drag him to the Headmaster’s office. Considering how frantic and crumpled Hermione had probably seemed, Professor Dumbledore allowed her an unscheduled visit to the Nott Residence as a single exception. After she promised not to tell anyone about this and be back in less than three hours, the Headmaster agreed to give her access to the Floo Network in his office. Hermione hurriedly stepped into the fireplace and threw a handful of powder, saying loud and clear, “Nott Residence.”

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was her parents sitting in the farthest corner of the library. As soon as they heard a sound coming from the fireplace, they looked up from their books. There was no surprise or shock in their expressions, just the silent understanding of the reason for her to come home all of a sudden.

“You’ve gotten the letter, then,” Aurora spoke up quietly, even carefully, as if she knew for sure the louder words were going to scare her daughter away. 

“ _When_ were you going to tell me you’ve been discussing with Draco’s parents our possible _marriage_ arrangement? The day of our wedding?” she huffed accusingly, heading to her parents. Her mother seemed amused at her choice of words, while her father looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than in the library with both of them. 

“Don’t be silly, darling,” her mother said, waving her hand dismissively. It’s been her trademark gesture for as long as Hermione could remember: Aurora Nott née Macmillan and _The Wave of the Hand._ She thought it could even make the competition to Professor Black’s Death Glare. “In this case, you wouldn’t have had time to choose a dress, make proper makeup, and arrange your hair. I swear, these locks and curls of yours will be the death of me one day.”

“Mother!” Hermione shouted, genuinely exasperated. It was annoying at times, how well-poised her mom could be even in situations like this when Hermione wanted to beat the living hell out of something. 

It was stupid, really. Being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, Hermione had known what awaited her in the future from very childhood. She was supposed to get sorted into either Slytherin or Ravenclaw ( _check_ ), have remarkable results in every subject ( _check_ ), and attend all the gatherings the pure-blooded society could possibly throw at her ( _check_ ). Then, she was expected to marry a pure-blooded man from either Slytherin or Ravenclaw, who would undoubtedly have to be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It had been written in the rulebook for all pure-blooded families ages before she was born. She wasn’t supposed to fall in love, or be happy, or do whatever she wanted. The heir, preferably a boy, was expected of her, and being a good wife was too. 

Hermione knew all of it by heart since her mother gave her that same speech on her seventh birthday. She could remember the exact words ever since. 

That being said, she was perfectly aware of what her life would be like. But being aware and being ambushed with the letter from the Malfoys a year before she’d even turned eighteen were two very different things in her book. 

Seeing her distress, Aurora sighed and put her hands on her lap. “Hermione, sit down and let your father and I talk to you.”

She folded her hands defensively, and her reply came out of sheer stubbornness when she said, “No, thank you, mother, I’d rather—”

Judging by her mother’s furrowed eyebrows and a thin line her mouth turned into, Hermione knew she made the wrong call. When Aurora spoke up again, her voice was pure ice and daggers thrown the younger witch’s way. “You’re almost of age, aren’t you? Then start acting like you are. Sit down _right_ now, young lady. Or the conversation won’t be half as pleasant as it was supposed to be.”

Hermione hesitated only for a few seconds, glancing at her father from the corner of her eye. He eyed her carefully and nodded. Eventually, she took the last remaining seat at the table, straightening her shoulders and slightly lifting her chin. She glanced at Aurora, trying to imitate her mother’s previous gaze, but to no luck. 

“Your judgment is clouded by the reasons I can’t quite apprehend,” the older witch said thoughtfully, studying her. Hermione shivered against her will, feeling as if she was being examined from inside out. “Just take a minute and think about it rationally, like I’ve taught you to. It’s the best possible outcome there ever could be, and everyone here knows it. Don’t we, Archibald?” Aurora asked, turning her head to the left and giving her husband an intense look.

He sighed heavily and decided not to answer that, knowing the consequences perfectly. Instead, the wizard with the dark brown curls, which were much more manageable than Hermione’s own, set his warm hazel eyes on his daughter. There was a small, soft, almost unnoticeable smirk tugging his lips, and Hermione felt herself smiling back.

“You know I don’t enjoy agreeing with your mother, but dear, this time she’s right,” Archibald said reluctantly as if it pained him physically. “Draco is one of your best friends, you’ve known each other since you were two, and you love him. He is an excellent man from a noble family who _adores_ you. What is not to like about that?”

“It’s just—” She shook her head, being aware of the fact that her next words would have a backlash. For the first time in forever, she didn’t really care. “I don’t love Draco, not like _that_.”

“ _Love_. How preposterous,” Aurora scoffed, and Hermione saw her father flinch at the words. She looked up at her mother, not even preparing to be ready to stay her ground. “You were smarter when you were seven, Hermione. Love is a concept that isn’t as necessary as it initially seems. You can’t just fall in love with someone right away. It takes a lot of work and even more time.”

“I’ve already had seventeen years, haven’t I?” Hermione snapped, eyes burning with unshed tears. It would be so much simpler if her mother could just _understand_ her at least once in a lifetime.

“Then another seventeen won’t make the difference, will they?” Aurora countered with a slight grin and a fire in her forest-green eyes. 

“Dad.” She turned to look at him as if he could be the answer to all of the unspoken pleas. 

“Honey, you can learn to love him the way you want to be loved herself. That’s what happened with me and your mom,” Archibald said. This line began to sound too rehearsed at least three years ago. Hermione chuckled sadly at that but let him keep talking. “That’s what the summer at Malfoy Manor Narcissa offers to all of the chosen girls is about. And Pansy will be there too, won’t she? Just think of it as a usual summer break with two of your best friends. Maybe they can even teach you to play Quidditch,” he offered, wiggling his eyebrows.

She laughed heartedly, an expression of utter horror on her face mixed with light amusement. “Merlin, _no_ way. I’m never playing that barbaric game. It’s even worse than chess. It’s designed to kill people!” She waved her hand to make a point. “I don’t enjoy the feeling of a Bludger in my face, thank you very much.”

“Well, there’s a library in Malfoy Manor, which is deemed to be even greater and more magnificent than the one at Hogwarts,” Archibald said insinuatingly, making her roll her eyes.

“I know. I’ve _been_ there.”

“Yes, but it was _five_ years ago. The Malfoys get hundreds or maybe even thousands of new books every nine months. Have you heard Narcissa had just acquired the first and hand-written edition of _A History of Magic_?” he asked matter-of-factly, desperately trying to hide his smile at his daughter’s immediate reaction. 

Hermione gaped, staring at him in utter disbelief. “No _way_! You’re lying, she couldn’t possibly—”

“Oh, but she _did_!” Archibald insisted. “There was a private auction for eleven families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, your mother and I included. Narcissa was the most intense and ruthless bidder. The stakes were so high the auction ended in _four_ minutes. Bathilda Bagshot got so much money for this book she has enough galleons for seventeen lifetimes.”

“Okay, that’s really badass!” Hermione said enthusiastically, already thinking of five different ways to ask Madam Malfoy to read the book during her stay at the Manor. 

“Hermione Abigail Nott, language,” Aurora hissed. Still, not even the ice in her tone could make Hermione forget about what Narcissa Malfoy did. The brunette was sure her mother was disgusted at the topic of conversation. In essence, both she and her dad knew Aurora had wanted to acquire the book’s first edition just in spite. Hermione would have to hold back not to give Narcissa Malfoy a high-five as soon as she met her.

“Sorry, mother,” she said without even a hint of guilt, giving her mother the most satisfied look possible. “What I meant to say was—I’m absolutely _amazed_ by Madam Malfoy’s actions, her sheer determination, and her excellent bidding technique.” 

Her father looked at her and raised his eyebrows. He was clearly astonished by his daughter’s choice of words, which made Aurora flinch and fidget nervously. 

“So, as I was saying,” Archibald kept on. He realized he was inches close from getting his not-so-little girl to agree to the summer break at Malfoy Manor. “There’s an impressive book collection. And you weren’t really allowed to touch any Dark Arts books when you were twelve, and Malfoys have a _lot_ of those.”

Hermione knew precisely how many of them Madame Malfoy had in her library. Seven hundred and eighty-three. She counted all of the books in the Dark Arts section when she was eleven, desperately trying to suppress the desire to read at least one of them. Sometimes Madam Malfoy would find her staring at the tomes with bright and shimmering eyes. She was practically forced out of the library whenever she had been staring at them for too long.

“You know,” Archibald began once again, but he was sure it would be the last needed effort. His next words should do the trick perfectly. “Narcissa might even teach you Occlumency if you ask nicely…”

Hermione gasped in surprise, wide-eyed, a small smile forming on her lips. “Okay, dad, that’s cheating!”

“But it’s working, isn’t it?” he countered playfully. 

“Maybe.”

“Hermione.”

“Okay, okay, it is,” she confirmed grudgingly with her significant eye-roll. Her mother hissed at that, clearly irritated by the action, but Hermione just ignored her, giving every ounce of her attention to her father. “I have to admit your tactics are… not half as bad as I thought they’d be,” she smirked jokingly.

“Ouch, dear, I’m offended,” Archibald said, failing at feigning the grudge. His smile was too wide for him to even try. 

“Don’t be, it’s just a widely known fact,” Hermione giggled.

They sat in silence for a minute, then for three, and then for seven more, until her father spoke up again, his voice as soft and delicate as the most expensive silk in the world.

“Dear, if you say you don’t want to go, we won’t make you,” he promised her, deliberately ignoring his wife’s angry whisper. “If you go and Narcissa, Draco, and Lucius choose you, but you realize you don’t want to marry him, we won’t make you do that either. All I’m asking of you is to give it a try,” he paused, tapping his fingers on his knee, and then added as an afterthought, “Who knows, you might get even more than you bargain for. Life tends to have an interesting sense of humor, you know.”

Hermione nodded hesitatingly as if saying she would try her best. Maybe, just maybe, she would spend these three months at the Manor, fall in love with her best friend and marry him a year later. They had already loved each other, although in a different kind of way. Maybe it was the best choice, perhaps, as if she had told Pansy herself, it would be a win-win for everyone. That’s what she was bargaining for. By all definitions in their society, there could be nothing more than becoming part of the Malfoy family by marrying the only heir to the Malfoy name.

But still, her father’s words echoed in her head when she stepped into the fireplace and disappeared in the green flames.

* * *

By the time Hermione had been back to Hogwarts, she was sure of at least one thing: everyone knew about the letters the Malfoy family had sent to the chosen girls. It was painfully clear because of the whispers and glances here and there. Every girl she passed by on her way to the Ravenclaw Common Room was either staring at her wide-eyed, not daring to come close, or mumbling her congratulations. Each and every one of them was a Slytherin. 

When Hermione locked herself in the blissfully empty bedroom, she slid down the nearest wall and took a shuddering breath. The stone against her back was pleasantly cold, so she leaned backward, closing her eyes and letting the thoughts run by. 

It appeared Madam Malfoy thought Hermione would be an excellent match for her only heir. Every soul in the Wizarding World was aware that the witch was the one who made all the decisions regarding her family. As she remembered him, Lucius was a man with a kind soul and an enormous heart for the ones closest to him, but Narcissa Malfoy was, well, _Narcissa Malfoy._

She remembered the witch as if the last time they talked was only a couple of hours ago when it had been those five years her father had spoken about in reality. Pansy and she stopped going to the Malfoy Manor for summer break after their third year began. Neither of them had any idea why, and nor did Draco. They knew better than to question their parents, so they had been spending the first two months at the Parkinson’s and the last remaining month at Nott Residence since they all were thirteen. Her mother wasn’t particularly fond of their little games and their loudness. It still seemed like the weight of the world was lifted from her shoulders as soon as Hermione stopped going to the Manor. 

And now, it’ll be the place she’d spent this summer at, and if she were to marry Draco, they’d come to live there one day. To Hermione, it was an entirely different kind of crazy. 

Soon enough, her thoughts drifted back to Madam Malfoy in a weak attempt to understand the older witch. Why did she choose her? Hermione wasn’t the most obvious of the choices. There were at least a dozen people who were. 

Even though Pansy ceased her summer visits to the Manor, too, she would still spend the Christmas break with the Malfoys every year. Hermione remembered a few articles in _Witch Weekly_ , where she had seen pictures of Pansy and Madam Malfoy shopping in _Twilfitt and Tattings_. Besides, Pansy mentioned her parents had been best friends with the Malfoys since Narcissa Malfoy was still Narcissa Black. 

Astoria Greengrass was another obvious choice. The same story as Pansy’s, only with the Easter break instead of a Christmas one. Not to mention that the Greengrasses had had connections with both Black and Malfoy families since the beginning of ages.

There were also Hestia Carrow, Camellia Selwyn, the Rowle girl a year younger than her—literally any girl from Slytherin and Sacred Twenty-Eight, and there were a lot of those. Hermione also recalled Draco had bonded with the Durmstrang girl he met at the Yule Ball a year ago. Let alone a dozen of pure-blooded Beauxbatons girls who had been following him the whole evening. 

And Hermione was—well, it looked like her mother absolutely _hated_ Madam Malfoy from time to time, and she had no idea why. In fact, she deemed it impossible to hate the witch with the platinum-blonde hair. Hermione had always thought people who loathed the woman were the ones who envied her, and after what she had heard from her father today, she shouldn’t be surprised, really. But even if she’d let go of the fact that Madam Malfoy might have slightly disliked her mother, too, there was something else. Hermione was a Ravenclaw. That’s why all the Slytherin girls she met on her way to the bedroom were gaping at her: they didn’t expect it. Hermione was sure a couple of them might even think she had taken their place. To be honest, she felt so, too. 

Hermione hadn’t talked to Narcissa Malfoy in five years. She had seen the glimpses of the older woman at King’s Cross and remembered how her smile looked like because of the pictures Draco had almost shoved into her face a few times. Once or twice, during her visits to Hogsmeade, she saw the woman with platinum blonde hair turning the corner but couldn’t find it in herself to call out and make sure it was or wasn’t Madam Malfoy. That was all. The older witch didn’t know her. They hadn’t seen each other since Hermione was an awkward twelve-year-old girl, so why would she choose her, of all people? That’s what Hermione couldn’t wrap her head around.

The loud knock on the door and distant shouting pulled her out of her thoughts. She opened her eyes, and the decision came to her with candlelight flickering on the stone wall of the bedroom. Suddenly Hermione knew for sure who she was supposed to talk to.

* * *

She rapidly knocked on the dark wooden door before she could stop herself. When there wasn’t any answer, Hermione began knocking even faster until the door literally flew open. In front of her was the mess of the black curls in her night robes, sending an infamous Death Glare her way. It lacked the usual bite and coldness, though; Professor Black looked too sleepy and relaxed to get properly mad right now.

Hermione tried to ignore a tiny pang of guilt when she inquired, somewhat accusingly, “What was your sister thinking?”

Exhaustion on her DADA professor’s face transformed into sheer amusement, and Hermione found the older witch grinning almost naughtily. “Good evening to you too, Hermione,” she began, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m good, thank you for asking. No, you are not distracting me in any way. The weather is marvelous, indeed.”

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes, folding her hands. “It’s storming,” she stated, looking behind the witch at the nearest window. The snow had been erupting for the entire day as if it was the heart of the winter and not the middle of November. 

Professor Black shrugged nonchalantly, leaning on the doorframe. “I like it when it’s storming.”

It was soft and simple, and so like Bellatrix Black. Hermione couldn’t help the small smile her lips formed into. Seeing her reaction, the older witch stepped aside, and mere seconds later, Hermione found herself in her professor’s living room. She had been here before on a few occasions, so dark wooden bookshelves and a really comfortable-looking and inviting sofa in front of the fireplace weren’t as big of a surprise as they were for the first time.

“Tea?” Professor Black asked, moving past the brunette into a small kitchen. Hermione nodded absently. For some reason, all of the Hogwarts teachers had one of those in their private quarters, even though they’d more than often have their meals at the Great Hall. She knew for sure her Head of the House had never used his, and there was a rumor Professor McGonagall transformed hers into a private library. 

The ex-Auror’s living room smelled of cinnamon and maple, and probably of seven more various scents, which she couldn’t quite catch on. It had always relaxed Hermione to the core. She seated herself on the sofa carefully, looking around. There were books everywhere, tons of parchment—was it an actual _tower_ on the table nearby?—and at least three moving quills, working their magic endlessly. The whole room was comfortably chaotic, as well as Professor Black herself. It amazed her how the older witch, being a member of the most ancient and noble House of Black, could make her own food and barely even used house-elf services. Hermione was sure that she would burn the whole house and herself in the process if she tried to cook anything. 

Hermione was snatched from her thoughts when she registered the older witch putting a black ceramic mug on the coffee table in front of her. She took it silently, hissing at how hot it was. She turned to her left, meeting Professor Black’s eyes. Her gaze was truly piercing, looking right through her, but it didn’t make her feel that discomfort her mother had always invoked. 

“You’ve gotten the letter, then,” she stated calmly.

Hermione laughed half-heartedly. “You sound just like my mother.”

“Ouch. I’m offended, pet.” The small and playful smile was gracing the professor’s lips once again before it transformed into an adorable childish pout. Hermione rolled her eyes at the action, and the older woman just laughed, shaking her head. 

Silence enveloped them as the laughter died out. Hermione took a few careful sips of the tea, staring at the roaring fire in front of her. Chamomile and mint. She leaned back on the couch, caressing the mug with her fingertips. 

“Why aren’t you happy?” she heard Professor Black say. There was a clear note of unbaffled confusion in her voice. “Parkinson literally flew out of the dungeons, and I’m more than sure Greengrass is planning her wedding right now, in all details possible. And I have a bet with Cissy on Rabastan’s girl passing out while reading the letter.”

“So you knew,” Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. It was stupid. Bellatrix Black was aware of everything happening around her, even if it didn’t concern her directly.

“Of course I did, pet. It’s my nephew’s future we’re talking about.”

“For how long?” Hermione inquired and shivered. For a second, she was the one who sounded just like her mother. “How long have you known for?” she asked again, much more steadily and softly this time. 

Professor Black tsk-ed and answered in her usual mysterious manner. “One month, two… Maybe more. Time flies by incredibly fast, as you know.”

The brunette felt irritation building up inside of her again. 

“And you didn’t think about—I don’t know—telling me, for a change?” she shot back. “For Merlin’s sake, does _anyone_ here even remotely care about what _I_ think?” she snapped. 

“Don’t.” Came the answer, and Hermione realized Professor Black sounded almost… hurt. She quickly looked up and was met with an unreadable yet soft expression. She couldn’t make herself look away. “Just don’t,” the older witch repeated slowly. “Don’t lash out on me.” It could have sounded as on order, as a threat, or as a request, but it wasn’t any of these things to Hermione. It was almost a plea, a confident one, albeit. 

“And I do,” Professor Black said slowly, making the girl furrow in confusion. “I do… care,” it seemed like the older witch forced the word out as if it felt foreign on her tongue, “about what you think,” she finished and looked away, fidgeting with the hem of her robe nervously. “Cissy forbade me to breathe out even a word about it until she would send the letters, but I tried to warn you. You haven’t read your issue of _Witch Weekly_ today, have you?”

Hermione shook her head. 

“It was supposed to be delivered in the morning, but I guess something happened. You’ve probably gotten it with the rest of the mail,” Professor Black muttered to herself, guessing correctly. “It was magically altered. I added some headlines on the cover about marriage and the Malfoys.”

“I didn’t take a closer look at the magazines because I had already stumbled upon the letter,” Hermione explained, finding herself smiling. Maybe it was because of the fact that Professor Black tried to warn her at least once. Perhaps it was the chamomile tea. 

Suddenly, something struck her like lightning, and everything became abundantly clear. 

Hemione loathed DADA classes these days, even though she had still been in awe of the older witch. But Professor Black had recently taken to a liking to pair up Hermione and Draco and tease them about the nature of their relationship. One time, when the older woman was a substitute for Professor Snape, she and Draco were working together on a potion. They were desperately trying to finish everything in time. Then the class ended, and her best friend handed in their filled-up parchment, Hermione realized she had forgotten to sign it when it was already too late. After seeing only one last name instead of two, Professor Black smirked and asked, “What is it, pet? Are you already a part of the Malfoy family?”

And then there was Moaning Mirtle, who had had a new song this month. _Hubba hubba, ding ding, don’t forget the wedding ring,_ Hermione recalled.

“Merlin,” she mumbled, opening her mouth in shock at her own stupidity. “You’ve been giving me hints for the last month.”

“Finally! Ten points to Ravenclaw,” Professor Black exclaimed jokingly.

“I can’t believe I was so blind. It was obvious.” The brunette shook her head, smiling absently. She glanced up, her eyes locked on the older witch once again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you, Bellatrix,” came an unusually high-pitched reply.

Hermione laughed. “Well, thank you, Bellatrix.”

“Salazar, you’ve _finally_ said my first name!” she gasped. “How long has it taken me, six years?”

“Very funny, Professor Black.”

“Ugh, and here we go again.” The older witch pouted. “My professionalism is the only reason why two hundred and fourteen points haven’t still been deducted from Ravenclaw.”

Hermione gaped at her, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“Are you sure, pet?” Professor Black smirked. Mere seconds later, there was a soft smile tugging her lips instead of a previous smirk, and Hermione was shocked at this quick change even more than she was at the words. “It’s Bellatrix. For you. I’ve been telling it for a whole year, and I will keep doing that. Who knows, maybe I really will start deducting points.” She shrugged carelessly. “I don’t enjoy hearing ‘Professor Black’ outside of school grounds. Or in my private quarters, for that matter.”

“Outside of school grounds?” Hermione repeated, not getting it. Wit and wisdom, they said. It looked like she had forgotten her brain in a jar on her nightstand. 

“Yeah, I mean, you couldn’t possibly—oh.” Professor Black breathed out, understanding appearing in her features. “Archibald hasn’t told you?” she asked carefully.

Hermione frowned. “Told me what?” 

“About the Christmas break?” When Hermione shook her hand in denial, the older witch elaborated. “It’s a part of Cissy’s… thing, with the future marriage arrangement and all. You’ve been invited to spend the Christmas break in Malfoy Manor, along with Parkinson, Greengrass, and Lestrange. Your parents were supposed to tell you, and you’ll receive an official invitation in a few days.”

“Well, they didn’t,” she answered, taking another sip of her tea. It was warm now, the perfect temperature. “I don’t blame my dad, I wasn’t really… in the best shape for this kind of news.”

“Will you go?” 

“Do I have a choice?” Hermione deadpanned. 

Professor Black flinched. “Of course you do.”

The brunette chuckled, “Not really, no. We both know I don’t. It’s a choice without a choice, and you know it.” 

It was the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the howling of the wind outside the window. Quiet scratching of the moving quills and the rustling of the parchment. Chamomile tea and mint, maple trees after the warm summer rain, and cinnamon. Her breath and Bellatrix’s— _Professor Black’s_ , she quickly corrected herself.

“Why did she choose me?” Hermione whispered more to herself than to anyone else, but the older witch wasn’t the one to miss out on something. 

“Because you’re _you_ ,” Professor Black stated simply, matter-of-factly. The flames from the fireplace were reflected in her onyx eyes, but it didn’t make her seem terrifying. If anything, it made her even more delicate, beautiful even. In her night robes, with messy black curls and sleepy eyes, her professor looked like someone you’d want to come home to.

“You mean I’m a Nott?” the brunette specified. 

“Salazar’s snakes, there is that wit you’re supposed to have?” The older witch groaned in annoyance. Hermione shuddered visibly, hoping it’d be unnoticed. However, Bellatrix Black tended to notice everything, especially when it came to her. 

The next time she looked up, Professor Black was sitting next to her, nudging her gently. There was this the gentlest smile again, an unreadable expression and soft, cold fingertips brushing her hand.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Professor Black started carefully, “and you also know I consider you to be the smartest witch of your generation, like everyone else in this damned school.” She thought her voice was even softer than rose petals. Bellatrix couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked with anyone that way. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but the black-haired witch tsk-ed and shook her head, interrupting her. “If you say a word of disagreeing with me on that one, I _will_ start deducting those points of yours.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but stayed silent, listening closely. 

“When I said you were chosen because of who you are, it didn’t mean your last name. In fact, it’s a little bit offensive you thought I did.” There was this adorable childish pout again, and the brunette couldn’t help herself but laugh slightly at that. “I meant your personality. All the little things that make you you.”

“But your sister doesn’t _know_ me,” Hermione argued. “She hadn’t seen me since I was twelve, for Merlin’s sake. She can’t just—She has no idea who I am, only the memories of who I used to be as a child.”

“Well, Cissy knows how you scrunch up your nose when you read something and don’t quite understand it. How your feet are always cold, so you can’t live without fuzzy socks and blankets. And how clumsy you can be while running for the book you want to get ahold of, so there’re little bruises and cuts everywhere on your body,” Professor Black was listing, while Hermione’s eyes got wider and wider with every word. “That’s who you were five years ago, but that’s also who you are right now. Those things didn’t change, did they?” 

Hermione shook her head, letting a few strands fall over her face. 

“And Cissy also knows of the person who you are right now pretty much, I’d say. Draco talks about you any chance he gets. I’m afraid I’m guilty of that, too,” Professors Black chuckled, making the brunette gasp in surprise. “When I visited the Manor about three weeks after the O.W.L.s, I couldn’t help but mention to Cissy that you’ve gotten an Outstanding for every one of your eleven exams. She actually _choked—_ and Cissy is the one who follows etiquette rules and all that crap. God, it was amazing, she was so shocked—not shocked, I mean, rather impressed,” she quickly corrected herself before Hermione could even think of questioning her choice of words. “Did anyone tell you that you broke the record?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot in surprise. “There was a record?”

“Yes, Cissy set it in her fifth year. She had ten Outstandings for all of her chosen subjects.”

“Merlin, why had she never told me that? Why hadn’t Draco? I mean, I knew she was diabolically smart, but _this_!” Hermione exclaimed enthusiastically, putting the mug on a coffee table rather quickly. The tea has gone cold not long ago, but she couldn’t bear to think about that; all her thoughts were occupied by a certain witch and her love for knowledge. “But why ten and not eleven? She dropped Divination, right? I’m sure it was Divination, Professor Trelawney is just—ugh, told me there would be no man and my life, which literally means I’ll die alone.” By that point, she was long rambling, not even noticing an evident amusement on Professor Black’s face. “I mean, I know Nar—Madam Malfoy was, _is_ a Slytherin, but had the Sorting Hat _truly_ made the right choice? It’s just—my dad told me about _A History of—_ ”

“Okay, pet, we’re stopping right there,” Professor Black hushed, “because you’re doing the thing with the rambling again, and I do like you hell of a _lot_ , but do I need to remind you it’s almost ten o’clock? You’re the Prefect and all, so you can be out of your dorm past bedtime, but let’s get back to the matter of me deducting points if you—”

Hermione tried to argue, interrupting her. “But if you could just answ—”

“Cissy can answer your questions herself if you choose to come,” the black-haired witch said carelessly, looking at her nails and feigning apparent disinterest. However, the small mischievous smirk tugging her lips immediately gave her away. 

The brunette opened her mouth and then shut it, shaking her head in disbelief and groaning quietly. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I fell for it _twice_ in one day.”

“For some reason, I can,” Professor Black chuckled. “So, are you considering coming for the Christmas break?”

Hermione stayed silent for quite some time, a thousand questions swirling in her head like a hurricane until the most unexpected one slipped off the tip of her tongue. “Will you be there?”

“You know I stay at the castle on breaks,” the older witch said, tilting her head. 

“I do.”

Hermione’s hazel eyes were sparkling, so bright with the idea, and Professor Black seemed to catch on. She raised an eyebrow at the unspoken words, asking, “Are you saying what I _think_ you are saying?”

Hermione nodded. “I am.”

“You can’t do that,” she hissed. 

“Are you sure?”

“You’re tempting me, pet. You don’t wanna lose two hundred and fourteen points, don’t you?” the older witch shot back, leaning forward. 

“It’s the exact number of points I got for the last two and a half months.” Hermione seemed to remember as her smile grew wider. “Have you been following my progress?”

Professor Black’s mouth flew open when she tried to come up with a convincing response. “I follow the progress of every one of my—”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Hermione scoffed. “How many points Draco was awarded then?”

“Eighty-four,” the black-haired witch said with every bit of the confidence she could muster. 

“It’s just a random number. You don’t know.” She smiled widely. Winning surely felt pretty amazing. It was clear why Professor Black was so satisfied all the time, even if she was angry.

“Fine, I don’t.” The older woman rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I _have_ to know this.”

Hermione stared at her, bewildered. “You’re literally his Head of the House and his _aunt—_ ”

Professor Black huffed in annoyance, “Why the hell are you being so persistent about this little thing—”

“—so if you don’t know that about him—”

“—I can’t understand why does it matter so much to you, it’s—”

“—you surely _have_ been following my progress and—”

“And _nothing_ ,” Professor Black stated hesitatingly, her cheeks flushed, “it’s just stupid House points, maybe I was just checking out the competition, I mean, Ravenclaw can compete with Slytherin solely because of you, and I just wanted to know how far ahead were you of some of my best students, that’s—”

“Bellatrix!” Hermione exclaimed louder than she probably should have, hoping it’d work. It did.

It was a miracle, really: how her professor shut up immediately, opening her mouth a little and staring at her, eyes wide in shock, confusion, and surprise. Professor Black— _Bellatrix_ , Hermione corrected herself, blinked a few times, as if trying to comprehend if she’d heard her right. The younger witch licked her lips in a weak attempt to recall a taste of the name on her tongue. It wasn’t like the last time ten minutes ago; it wasn’t said jokingly. The name was soft, tender, and delicate, a little chaotic, just like Bellatrix herself.

“You’ve—you’ve said my name,” Bellatrix muttered more to herself than to anyone. 

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“Salazar, if I had known I just had to start rambling and arguing with you, I would’ve done it a couple of years ago,” she chuckled. 

“Don’t change the subject,” Hermione said. “We were talking about Christmas break.”

“I stay at the castle every year,” Bellatrix reminded her.

“I know.”

“I like it here.” 

“I know.”

“I don’t really like parties or balls, which Cissy is so notorious for,” the older witch kept going. 

“I know.”

Bellatrix frowned. “You sound like a broken record.”

“That I know too,” Hermione laughed. “I want to say something. Promise not to interrupt me?”

“I will—try,” the older witch answered hesitatingly, fidgeting with the hem of her robe again.

The brunette rolled her eyes, but a small smile still appeared on her lips when she met Bellatrix’s gaze. 

“I _want_ you there,” Hermione began, and either she was hallucinating, or she was sure she’d just heard a quiet yelp of a surprise coming from the older woman. “Draco will be there, and Pansy, too, but that’s not enough. I need you. I know I can always come to you, you’re—you’re kind of my safe place, I guess. I just—” She ran her hands through her hair and breathed out shakily. “It’s all so new and confusing. I might have to marry my best friend, my mother is putting a great deal of pressure on me, I still have my grades to think about, and now I actually have to impress _Narcissa Malfoy_ all over again, because apparently everyone in the world thinks marrying Draco is my best shot,” she rambled non-stop, completely forgetting to breathe in. “And I know I have Pansy and Draco, but they’re as involved in this thing as I am, but you’re—you’re not, and I consider you my friend, even though you’re my professor, and I trust you, and that’s why I just—I’m not sure I can do this on my own, and that’s why I _really_ want you there.”

Hermione finished and took a deep breath, fixing her eyes on the older witch. She looked… dumbfounded, for lack of a better word. She started babbling again before she could stop herself. 

“I know you don’t like balls, so you don’t even have to attend. I will think of something to get you rid of that torture. Still, even if you have to go, I’ll be by your side, hating everything as much as you do, if not more,” the brunette assured Bellatrix. “I know I can’t really transform Malfoy Manor into Hogwarts—though I _could_ try, you know, but that’s pretty advanced magic, and I’d have to practice a lot—that’s not the point, actually, because Madame Malfoy would probably kill me if I did that, but—you know, I would do it in a heartbeat if you agreed.”

The touch to her hand made her shiver, even if Bellatrix’s fingers were warmer than they usually were. Hermione looked at their hands brushing and then glanced up at the older witch, blinking rapidly.

“I will go, pet,” Bellatrix said softly, and this time Hermione was the one who the yelp came from. “And you don’t have to turn the Manor into Hogwarts—though I would like to see a fit Cissy would throw if you tried.”

“And who is tempting who now, huh?” the younger witch chuckled. She licked her lips once again, looking at her professor rather intensely. She was searching for any sign of dishonesty or a well-thought-out joke, but there was none of those. “You will really do it?”

“Of course.”

“Just—just like that? It’s that simple?” Hermione inquired, a little confused. 

“Just like that. It’s that simple,” Bellatrix answered with a simple shrug. “Though I would like it if you dropped the ‘Professor Black’ thing when we’re outside of the classroom.”

Hermione grinned widely. “Noted.”

They fell silent, and it was more comfortable than going to The Three Broomsticks at the weekends with Draco and Pansy. She leaned back, relaxing into the couch, and Bellatrix did the same. They watched the flames die out in the fireplace until they suddenly shot up. Hermione rapidly turned her head to her left, impressed by the wandless magic. It was surely Bellatrix’s work if the slightest smirk on her lips was anything to go by. She didn’t comment on it, not out loud. Instead, she looked back to the fire and closed her eyes. It was the same crackling of the firewood and the howling of the wind from the outside, but the smell of chamomile and mint tea wasn’t so strong anymore. The realization came without warning when she took a deep breath. She realized cinnamon and maple trees after the fresh summer rain was purely Bellatrix’s scent at the same time her professor whispered, “I consider you to be my friend, too.” 


	2. curiosity leading the way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, to everyone who kinda shipped Bellamione in the first chapter… Huh. Hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **for my love, my biggest inspiration, my biggest supporter <3**

The next month passed by in an unusual hasty haze.

It had mostly been a blur of classes, House points and the praise from teachers, with occasional visits to Hogsmeade on the weekends. More than that, going to Bellatrix’s private quarters once or twice a week became a rather pleasant habit.

They would talk for hours on end, drinking tea while sitting in front of the fireplace. Hermione enjoyed those times the most, the times she would have to sneak out of her dorm and try to get to the dungeons unnoticed. She would soon find herself in her professor’s room, removing her school robes and revealing pajamas underneath. At first, it reminded her of the sleepovers the younger Ravenclaw girls would occasionally have, but it was nothing of the sort. Somehow, their meetings appeared to have a much more profound meaning. They talked about literature and politics, discussed arts, and argued about DMLE activities.

Every chance she got, Hermione would try her luck and ask Bellatrix something about her youngest sister. Bellatrix would always _tsk_ at that, shaking her head with a small smile tugging her lips.

“Be patient, pet. It’s just a few more weeks,” the black-haired witch would repeat until it suddenly was the 19th of December. It wasn’t just ‘a few more weeks’; it was only one day, and Hermione, usually so considerate and attentive, jumped out of her bed in the middle of the night after a painful realization had struck her. 

The next moment she knew, she was muttering a password, standing by her professor’s door, and letting herself in. As soon as Bellatrix had seen her, she jumped up from her seat and accidentally took out an actual _tower_ of parchment with a movement of her hand. She stared mindlessly at it while the papers kept flying towards the carpeted floor. 

“Merlin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’ll fix it right away,” Hermione muttered, reaching for her sleeve to take out her wand and clean up the mess but never finding it here. She hissed under her breath and kneeled, starting to put the pieces of parchment in a neat pile to her right.

Suddenly, she felt a soft touch of cold fingers on her wrist, which made her head shoot up. The older woman with her signature messy black curls and in night robes was kneeling right in front of her.

“Hey, pet, it’s alright. It’s just a bunch of already graded essays. Nothing to worry about,” Bellatrix reassured her, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small smile. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“It will be okay, as soon as I finish co—” Hermione couldn’t even finish her thought; she watched as all of the parchment floated in the air and formed the exact same tower that was ruined only a few moments ago. She gasped at that, looking at the older witch with sheer admiration in her eyes. “Can you teach me?”

Bellatrix smirked, getting up and making Hermione stand up too.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“You know I’m talking about wandless _and_ wordless magic you do here and there,” Hermione said. “I can cast non-verbal spells and do wandless magic myself from time to time, but not when these two are combined. How do you do it? Can you teach me? _Please?_ ” she almost begged. 

“I’m more than sure it’s not what you came here for at—” Bellatrix took a quick look at the clock next to the door and then settled her eyes on Hermione, “—three and a half in the morning.”

“Three and _what_ in _what_?” the younger witch almost shouted, her eyes widening in a heartbeat. “Merlin, I’m so sorry, I haven’t even realized it was so late—I mean, technically, it’s early, not late, but—”

“Okay, let me stop you right there,” Bellatrix interrupted her, holding her free hand up. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to panic. I wasn’t asleep, was I?”

“I—no, you weren’t.” Hermione frowned at her own words and then asked, “Why weren’t you, for Merlin’s sake? It’s three and a half in the morning!”

Bellatrix let out a small laugh.

“Unfortunately, papers don’t grade themselves.”

Hermione began to argue right away. “Moving quills actually are—”

The older witch rolled her eyes, the smallest of smirks still firmly in place, just like it always was.

“Oh, come on, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, I do,” Hermione relented. “How many essays do you have left?”

“Oh, just the fifth and the seventh year. I’ll be done in a couple of hours.” She shrugged nonchalantly.

“ _Absolutely_ not!” the brunette shrieked. “It will be six in the morning in a few hours. Merlin, you actually need to _sleep_ to stay alive, don’t you know that?”

“Again, that’s not what you came here for,” Bellatrix said, a slight annoyance lacing her tone. “Even though it’s not your business _at all_ , you should know that I’m grading those right now so I could spare myself the necessity of doing it during the break.”

“Oh.” Hermione blinked, finally remembering what she had _actually_ come here for. “The break! Nar—Madame Ma—your sister!” she blurted out enthusiastically. “I completely forgot about the gift!”

“The gift?” the older witch asked, confused.

“Yeah, it’s like—it’s the welcoming gift. Draco said we would all go to Diagon Alley the day before Christmas, so I planned to find some Christmas presents for all of you there, but Merlin’s beard, I’ve only just thought of the welcoming gift! What in Rowena’s name should I get her?” she blurted out, panicked and short of breath. “I mean, my parents sent me something with an owl a week ago, but isn’t that too basic? I don’t know, I don’t feel like my mother’s idea of a present is something your sister would li—”

“Okay, we clearly need some tea for this conversation. Sit down while I make it,” Bellatrix said, effectively cutting her off mid-sentence and heading to the kitchen right after that.

Hermione complied immediately; she walked to the couch, sank in, and tucked her legs under her. A couple of minutes later, her professor was right next to her, handing her a mug with a freshly brewed tea. It smelled vividly of blueberry and lemon. 

“I’m sure you’ve made up an entire list by the time you got from the Ravenclaw tower to the dungeons,” Bellatrix assumed. Of course, she was right; she knew Hermione all too well. “What do you have in mind?”

“Not a lot, actually,” the younger witch began. “The thing is, I probably know even less about her than she does about me. And what could I possibly get for _Narcissa Malfoy?_ I’m more than sure she can buy and sell all members of my family a dozen times,” she scoffed. “And before you say anything, your sister _did_ buy the first edition of _A History of Magic_.”

“Yeah, that was pretty nerdy of her, I must say,” Bellatrix muttered.

“That was pretty _awesome_ , if I may,” Hermione countered. “Still, it does set a high standard. And I do have a large vault in Gringotts, but still—what would she like? Jewelry? A book? It’s stupid, really. Her necklaces probably cost more than Nott Residence, and, well, the _library_ in her house—I don’t think a book that isn’t in there even _exists_ ,” she emphasized.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, taking a small sip from her cup.

“You’re exaggerating, pet.”

“Maybe a little,” Hermione agreed reluctantly, shrugging. She did tend to overreact most of the time. “I just want to—I just want to make something right. I want her to like me.”

“Because she might be your future mother-in-law?” Bellatrix smirked.

Hermione couldn’t fight the urge to roll her eyes when she answered, “No, because she’s my best friend’s mother, and your sister who you love, and, well, _Narcissa Malfoy_. These are the main reasons.”

“Just these?” the older witch inquired, grinning widely. 

“Okay, okay. Maybe my dad got me to agree to this whole thing the unfair way,” Hermione muttered, making Bellatrix raise her eyebrow questioningly. “He told me about the Dark Arts section in the Malfoy library and also mentioned that Na—Madam Malfoy is extremely skilled in occlumency. Told me she’d teach me if I asked her nicely.”

“Well, she very well might,” her professor threw offhandedly. “Or, to put it another way, you’d like to _befriend_ Cissy,” she added with an amused grin. “Go back to that time when you would hang out with her in the library for hours.”

“I haven’t said _anything_ of the sort,” Hermione argued calmly, tapping her fingertips on the mug in her hands. “Can you just help me out? Please?”

And after that, they fell silent. Bellatrix had been staring at the fire for good ten minutes as if she revised each and every memory of her younger sister she had. When she finally spoke up, her voice was a little bit horse. 

“Cissy is used to people trying to impress her,” Bellatrix answered, turning to look at her student. “That’s how it has always been since we were kids. She was so different from me, even from Andromeda. And it wasn’t just about her appearance, though her hair could be spotted a mile away,” she chuckled. “It was mostly about the way she carried herself, especially after Andy and I had left Hogwarts. She seemed lonely even when surrounded by people, and that she was, every minute of every day. _Lonely._ That’s what being a Black gave her; every Slytherin student was trying to make a memorable impression so hard they made complete fools of themselves more often than not. And somehow, for her, it was twice as bad as it was for me. Her platinum-blonde hair made her a black sheep, as ridiculous as it sounds,” Bellatrix let out a laugh, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh too. “But it also made her unique.”

It was the crackling of the firewood Hermione had already got used to, cinnamon and maple trees after the fresh summer rain, blueberry and lemon tea, and a clear image of Narcissa she had in her mind.

Hermione could picture the blonde-haired witch during her time in Hogwarts as vividly as if she was right in front of her at the moment. She imagined Narcissa wearing her long hair loose and always carrying a book around with her; Narcissa hiding out in the Astronomy Tower or in the Owlery when the attention was just too much for her to handle; Narcissa who would sit at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall with a dozen of people attempting to make a conversation, while she was desperately trying to finish a chapter of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ or _Moste Potente Potions_. If Hermione had to guess, she would pick the latter. 

Somehow, this little game her imagination decided to play enabled her thoughts to go in the direction she had never pictured they would go. Hermione couldn’t help herself. She knew what it was like, being recognized on the premises of her last name, but she had no idea what it was like to be a Black. It seemed like there was an entirely different category of witches and wizards, and no one who hadn’t been born into the most ancient and noble House of Black couldn’t truly understand what it meant. Hermione found herself thinking that she desperately wanted to.

She was sure she would get a headache because of all the questions about Narcissa’s past that were swirling in her mind like a whirlwind. What was her favorite class? Hermione thought it would be Potions, or maybe Transfiguration; Defense Against the Dark Arts seemed not exquisite enough for such a unique person as Narcissa Black. Who was her favorite professor? Not Dumbledore, she was sure of that. Hermione thought of the people who had taught Narcissa, because Professor Snape was probably a few years ahead of her, but still close to her age. McGonagall was there, for sure, and Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick, too, but Hermione didn’t think the blonde-haired witch enjoyed their company that much. If she wasn’t mistaken, Horace Slughorn had been the Head of Slytherin before Severus Snape took the position ten years ago. Hermione didn’t pegNarcissa for someone who would like Slughorn, but she was sure the older witch had been a member of the Slug Club, just like all of the Blacks. What if Narcissa didn’t have a favorite professor? It was possible, but Hermione couldn’t quite picture it, sitting there in front of Bellatrix. 

The name that had suddenly popped into her thoughts ended up pulling her out of them. She shook her head in an attempt to focus and found Bellatrix looking at her with narrowed eyes. 

“Did you even hear what I said?” she asked, but it lacked a bite these words would have had last year. 

“Narcissa was— _is_ unique. Extraordinary,” Hermione repeated the last words she could recall before she zoned out. 

“This preamble that got you thinking,” Bellatrix smirked knowingly, and Hermione felt her cheeks heating up just the tiniest bit. She blamed it on the closed windows and the warmth coming from the fire. “It was there for me to make a point. And the point is, the more you try to impress Cissy, the more you fail. She expects it. She expects expensive jewelry and first editions of the books she likes—and literally _everyone_ knows those after that _Witch Weekly_ article. She’s used to people who give her things she can easily buy herself. It annoys the hell out of her, actually,” her professor chuckled. 

“So what you’re saying is—”

“Be unpredictable. Surprise her. Get her something unique. Cissy will love it even if she hates it, believe me.”

“But how can someone love something when they h—”

“Salazar, when it comes to Cissy, it’s more than possible,” Bellatrix assured her. 

Hermione mumbled something to herself, worrying her bottom lip. She already had some ideas and was sure Astoria, Pansy or the Lestrange girl would get Narcissa something like that. But she realized she needed to clarify some things before actually buying anything.

“Can you answer a couple of my questions without asking for details and teasing me?” she asked with all the confidence and seriousness she could muster. The latter faded away as soon as Bellatrix pouted and furrowed her brows, feigning offense. However, her curiosity was stronger, so the older witch lifted the corners of her lips in a quick smile and nodded eagerly, agreeing with her conditions. “Does she like music?”

“Well, she has loathed Celestina Warbeck since ex-Prewett became the head of her fan-club, singing her songs all over the castle,” Bellatrix chuckled at the memory. “Oh, Salazar, there was one time about two Christmases ago when Parkinson decided to listen to the Weird Sisters’ latest album during her stay at the Manor. Full volume on. I swear, Cissy’s politeness and hospitality are the only reason your best friend is still alive.”

Hermione smiled. “Okay, noted. And what about books? Does she read fiction and poetry? Something except books on magic and science?”

Bellatrix scoffed, “Pet, she hated _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ as a child. I think that explains it all.” 

The brunette frowned, thinking intensely. With everything Bellatrix had just told her, her present would stand out from all the others. All she needed now was Bellatrix saying yes to the last question. 

“She keeps in touch with Andromeda, doesn’t she?” Hermione asked carefully but somewhat nonchalantly. 

Everyone in the Wizarding World knew that Cygnus and Druella Black disowned their middle daughter over twenty years ago after she eloped with a muggle-born and had a child. Draco told her that story multiple times, and she vaguely recalled hearing something about that situation when she still was a frequent visitor of the Malfoy Manor. She also knew Bellatrix kept in touch with Andromeda and visited her almost weekly.

Hermione had actually met the witch a couple of times in the Diagon Alley when she was there with Bellatrix. However, Narcissa hadn’t been seen with Andromeda for a couple of decades now, so Hermione needed to know for sure if the blonde-haired witch was as free of prejudice as Bellatrix and Draco were. Oh, how Hermione hoped she was.

“Of course she does,” Bellatrix smiled as she rolled her eyes, waving her hand in Hermione’s general direction. “They meet up at the Manor every month or so, but Cissy prefers to visit Andy in her townhouse in muggle London to avoid the press. Oh, and at the beginning of September, they went to a _muggle theatre_ together,” Bellatrix said. “They watched a play based on some romance novel. Cissy seemed to like it.”

Hermione actually _beamed_ at that, her entire face lighting up immediately. It almost seemed too good to be true. She shifted in her seat, trying to control her excitement. However, she failed desperately when a wide, sheepish smile spread across her face.

Bellatrix was lost in thought and, therefore, unaware of Hermione’s reaction. 

“But it hasn’t always been like that,” the older witch kept on. “Both of us stopped talking to Andy after she was disowned, and it took us about a decade to reconcile. It was hard at first, getting rid of the weight of family beliefs. I still remember the day I referred to Ted as a mudblood just because that was something I was taught to do,” she chuckled sadly, shaking her head.

There wasn’t a smile on Hermione’s face anymore as she listened attentively. She shifted in her seat and leaned forward, as if in an attempt to get closer to Bellatrix to somehow support and comfort her.

“It was an instinct, nothing more—a habit from the childhood days when this slur was used commonly. Ted looked at me, and he just—smiled,” she said, baffled even at the mere memory. “It was a huge contrast to the look of utter horror on my face. He said he knew I didn’t mean it, that it was thrown offhandedly, that it wasn’t something I believed in anymore. And I don’t. I don’t believe it. Not anymore.”

Bellatrix’s voice was a little bit hoarse by the end of the speech, and Hermione realized she wanted to caress the back of her professor’s hand or touch her wrist ever so gently, the way Bellatrix had always touched hers. She bit her lip and leaned back just a little, trying to make the movement as unnoticeable as possible. 

There were a thousand things she wanted to do and even more things she wanted to say, but instead of saying even one of them, she just whispered, “I know.”

Her voice was soft, almost inaudible, but Bellatrix heard nonetheless. Her head shot up, a mess of black curls surrounding Hermione on all sides. Their eyes met, and they stared at each other for quite some time until her professor looked away and fixed her eyes on the fire. 

Good ten minutes had passed before Hermione finally spoke up.

“They say you deduct House points for the use of the slur. Or that you used to do it a few years back.”

“Yes, I did,” Bellatrix replied matter-of-factly. 

“You don’t do it anymore?”

“There’s no need.” She shrugged. When Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise, the older witch rolled her eyes but still elaborated. “They don’t use the slur anymore. Not in Slytherin and not during my classes, anyway. When someone whose family’s motto is _Toujours Pur_ gets rid of prejudice, others seem to fall in line, too.”

“You’re astonishing,” Hermione blurted out, a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

Bellatrix glanced up at her and smirked.

“I know, pet.”

“Not really, no,” the younger witch said before she could stop herself. “You don’t recognize how remarkable you are. You say you know it because you’re used to hearing it and answering exactly that way. You don’t really know, though. But you _are_ remarkable and astonishing, and everything in between.”

Bellatrix furrowed her eyebrows and opened her mouth to say something but shut it quickly and looked away once again. They fell silent, and neither of them hadn’t said a thing for so long Hermione lost track of time after at least thirty minutes had passed. 

Hermione wrapped both of her hands around the mug, feeling its warmth even after a significant amount of time. _Probably some advanced version of the water-heating charm_ , she thought, taking a few sips. The lemon in tea was so strong it almost wholly overshadowed the blueberry. Still, she liked it. Hermione thought she’d drink everything Bellatrix would give her. Her professor was excellent at combining usual tea flavors and creating something unexpectedly delicious. 

Her gaze fell to the mug in her hands, and for the first time in these couple of weeks, she noticed that it wasn’t just any black ceramic mug. There was a magically scribbled note on it, which said _‘The Best DADA Professor of All Time’._ Hermione couldn’t help and smile mindlessly when she caressed the edges of the cup.

She looked up, meeting Bellatrix’s onyx eyes, which seemed to be studying her for quite some time. They were so extremely telling, just like always. It had always been a whirlwind of emotions behind them, and Hermione could tell what Bellatrix was feeling only by holding her gaze and studying her features. T

The older witch frowned ever so slightly and licked her lips, blinking a few times more than she usually did. Bellatrix took a quick sip from her cup, hissing at the hot liquid. She put it away on the coffee table in a fast motion and then started fidgeting with the hem of her black robe all over again, never taking her eyes off of Hermione. Her mouth was opened just a little as if she was desperately trying to get more oxygen into her system. Bellatrix was fiercely beautiful in the firelight; she was softly raging emotions without even saying anything, just looking at her with such intensity and eloquence that the words were suddenly losing their meaning.

“What?” the older witch asked impatiently, frowning even further. 

“It’s nothing.” Hermione shook her head softly. She raised a mug to her lips in an attempt to hide her smile. 

Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

“You know I hate when people do that.”

The younger witch lowered the half-full mug. She began tapping her fingertips on her knee. The rhythm vaguely reminded her of the classic tune a fourth-year muggle-born had always listened to in their dorm room before going to sleep. Vivaldi, she remembered. He was great, sure, but not one of her favorites. 

“It’s just your eyes,” Hermione said.

“And what about them?” her professor prompted, a little defensively even. 

“They’re really telling. Eloquent. As well as your features. I can say what you’re thinking just by looking at you for a few seconds. It amazes me, you know?” Hermione smiled, shaking her head mindlessly. “You’re just so—so _you_. I don’t think anyone like you could possibly exist. You’re just so—incomparable.”

“Well, they say it runs in the family,” Bellatrix smirked. 

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. She leaned back on one of the sofa cushions and relaxed into it, humming to herself and stealing glances at Bellatrix from time to time. The older witch seemed tired but calm when she did the same as Hermione. She summoned a blanket with a flick of her wrist shortly afterwards. It covered both of them, and Hermione stretched her legs a little as they started getting numb. She took a few careful sips of tea and put away her—Bellatrix’s—mug, returning to a comfortable position. 

The crackling of the firewood was the last thing she heard, cinnamon and maple trees after the fresh summer air was the last thing she smelled, and soft fingertips accidentally brushing her ankle was the last thing she felt before everything turned dark.

* * *

When Hermione woke up, her neck was stiff from an uncomfortable position she had slept in, and her eyelashes were fluttering while she desperately tried to keep her eyes open. It seemed an impossible task, so she closed them, relaxing into the cushions. It was easy to enjoy the comfort of the blanket and the warmth of the touch to her legs. 

That was the moment her eyes shot open. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows and gasped. 

Bellatrix was there, and she looked so undeniably _peaceful_. The fluttering of her eyelashes, the deepness of her breath, and the way her black curls moved up and down with her shoulders and chest. Her professor was curled up in a rather unpleasant position, which would undoubtedly leave her with a neckache. However, she still looked more relaxed when Hermione had ever seen her before. These were small details many people wouldn’t even notice: a slight frown on her face was gone, and her lips weren’t curled up in a usual way that sometimes seemed too forced. Bellatrix seemed defenseless as if she had put all of her walls down willingly, with a complete understanding of what she was doing. 

Hermione shook her head, pulling herself out of her thoughts. She tried to move over and stand up, but it was difficult to do so when her legs were still entangled with Bellatrix’s. She faked a cough, hoping it would be enough for the older witch to wake up, but nothing changed. Hermione sighed, leaning forward as far as she could. It was a careful touch on her professor’s arm that made the older witch open her eyes unbearably slowly.

The younger witch was stunned when she met Bellatrix’s gaze. There was something in these onyx eyes Hermione had never seen before, something she had always longed to see there, even if unconsciously. It was there now, but it didn’t make her feel a winner. She felt so much more than that when something unexplainable built up in her chest, not allowing her to speak. Because in these onyx eyes, looking right at her, was pure vulnerability. 

It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Hermione more dumbfounded than ever. A small frown was back, and although Bellatrix’s little smile was undeniably beautiful, it was nothing compared to the combination of the slightly opened mouth and wide eyes. The change she witnessed seemed tremendous, that little piece of something Bellatrix was hiding every single day. Although there was a sheer softness in her eyes, it was nothing like what had been there before.

Hermione tilted her head, studying the older witch rather intensely, and then it struck her like lightning. Bellatrix’s posture was a bit rigid; a small frown was a little deeper than usual, and even though her eyes were welcoming, shining with something unreadable as always, there was something else, too. When Hermione’s gaze focused on Bellatrix’s hands, which were now fidgeting with the edge in the blanket, it all fell into place. 

Bellatrix was afraid. She was terrified of her own vulnerability. 

So Hermione let it slide. Instead of saying thousands of things she wanted to, she ran her hands through her hair, met the older witch’s eyes and smirked. 

“Merlin, I hope Professor Snape doesn’t see me when I try to sneak out.”

Just like that, Bellatrix relaxed once again as she sat up. Hermione could feel questions, words, and thoughts crawling on the inner walls of her brain, but she tried to shake them off. She chose to ignore them. For whatever reason, Hermione was sure there would be a moment they would come back to it. All she had to do was wait, so she found herself revelling in Bellatrix’s playful smile instead of wondering.

“My, my, Hermione. Spending the _night_ at your _professor’s_ private quarters,” Bellatrix whispered coyly, leaning forward. “What would your classmates think?”

“Well, Draco would undoubtedly have a heart attack,” she began thoughtfully, earning a chuckle from the older witch, “and Pansy would probably give me the _highest_ high-five ever.”

Bellatrix laughed, loud and clear, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, too. It was full two minutes before both of them had finally calmed down and managed to get up. Her professor moved to her bedroom without saying anything, probably to change her clothes and wash up. Hermione rolled up the blanket, deciding to leave it on the couch, and then cleaned the mess on the coffee table. Once she was in the little kitchen, she quickly made some tea, though it wasn’t half as delicious as Bellatrix’s, judging by the smell. She used a few dry berries of unknown origin and chamomile, hoping it would calm her down at least a little bit. 

Hermione was on the couch when Bellatrix came out of her bedroom, in her black dress and a tight, _tight_ corset. While it seemed incredibly uncomfortable, in her opinion, it also made the older witch look fiercely beautiful. 

Shaking her head, Hermione handed Bellatrix the cup and took a sip from her own, eyeing Bellatrix with slight admiration. 

“Thank you,” she said. When her professor raised her eyebrows, she added, “For going to the Manor for m—the Christmas break.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and chuckled. Judging by the gaze she got, Hermione was sure the older witch noticed the slip she had almost made. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Bellatrix shrugged nonchalantly, moving to her desk. She took a couple of sips from her mug, mumbling something to herself, and put it on the piece of paper. Her next movements were abrupt and chaotic as she started collecting some pieces of parchment and books. 

It looked like Bellatrix was getting back to grading yesterday’s essays, and Hermione took it as a sign to leave. She stood up and headed to the door, glancing at her professor with her hand on the handle. 

“I’ll see you on the train?” she asked, a small mischievous smirk tugging her lips. She knew the older witch wasn’t particularly fond of Hogwarts Express and preferred every other way of traveling over it. 

Bellatrix looked up at her, narrowed her eyes again, and then rolled them. She stayed silent for quite some time before she finally forced herself to say, “Ugh, yeah, fine.”

The last thing Hermione saw before exiting the room was a glimpse of Bellatrix’s smile.

* * *

Hermione thought Dumbledore didn’t look surprised at all when she appeared in his office, accompanied by Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. She felt a little embarrassed because of the need to ask for permission, but she understood the apparition prohibition on the school grounds. Still, she’d rather splinch than spend forty minutes finding two of her professors once again. 

Flitwick was easy to persuade, as well as McGonagall. Even though the older witch wasn’t her Head of the House, she was extremely skilled at convincing the Headmaster to do something, so Hermione thought her help would be quite useful. 

At the end of their conversation, Dumbledore granted her permission to leave the school grounds once again but insisted Professor McGonagall went with her. Hermione shrugged and silently agreed, being thankful she was permitted to leave due to personal things she had to deal with for the second time in the past month.

They flooed to the Leaky Cauldron, quickly left the inn after chatting with some of Professor McGonagall’s acquaintances, and found themselves on Charing Cross Road. Hermione’s favorite bookshop she had visited before was just two blocks away, so they went on foot, catching glances of some muggles passing by. She had to admit they were dressed quite unusually. In essence, her navy-blue cloak with a warming charm on it probably interested a couple of people, while McGonagall’s traditional dress and pointed hat definitely raised a few questions. 

They entered the store in several minutes, and Hermione inhaled as deeply as she could after greeting the owner. The smell of old and new books was one of her favorite ones, making her revel in some sort of safety it had always brought her. She sprinted towards the _Classics of English Literature_ section and took her precious time to choose the perfect books for Madame Malfoy.

A hardcover copy of _Jane Eyre_ of dark grey-ish color was the first book she chose. It was her favorite one; she had read it so many times she lost count over a year ago. She knew the second book for her welcoming gift would be Jane Austen’s one, but there were so many options to choose from. She lingered with _Northanger Abbey_ for quite some time, but then moved and reached for _Pride and Prejudice_ , which cover’s color was almost identical to her cloak’s.

When Hermione heard a gentle fake cough behind her, she decided to hurry. She quickly took seven more books for light reading on her Christmas break and headed to the counter. After paying, they left the bookshop and headed towards Charing Cross Road. They were mere steps away from the Leaky Cauldron when McGonagall said, with that small eloquent smile of hers, “Whoever these books are for, they are sure to like them.”

* * *

Their compartment had been filled with laughter and chocolate frogs jumping up and down since the minute they stepped in. It smelled of her best friends’ perfumes and chocolate, reminding her of their first ride on this train when they all were eleven. They grew up and changed throughout these five years, but, Hermione realized, stayed the same, at least in some way. 

She laid there with her head in Pansy’s lap, letting the dark-haired witch feed her with _Bertie Bott’s_. They had been at it for about thirty minutes, but Hermione had wanted to spit out her insides only once when Pansy got distracted and accidentally put a sardine flavored bean in her mouth.

Draco would shake his head and them from time to time, desperately trying to focus on his book and hide his growing smile. In the end, he gave up and joined them, grabbing a mouthful of beans from the box when Pansy reassured him that, “These are the good ones, trust me.”

Hermione hid her face in Pansy’s stomach in an attempt to quieten her giggling. Still, she had burst out laughing only mere seconds later when Draco spit the bean out and started cursing both of them rather intensely. She and Pansy couldn’t help it and giggle even louder; their laughter was so intense she was sure they could be heard in every other compartment nearby.

It didn’t help when one of the chocolate frogs jumped on Hermione’s face, making her scream in surprise.

“Oh Merlin, Pansy! Pans, get it out of my face!”

Draco cackled. “Pansy, don't even _think_ about it!”

If Pansy’s body shaking with laughter was anything to go by, she wouldn’t.

“Come on, guys, it’ll poke my eyes out!” Hermione shouted, trying to catch the frog herself but failing. 

“Salazar, it’s made of _chocolate_!” Pansy forced out, but she still carefully grabbed the frog’s leg and put it on the table. “You can be such a drama queen, Mione.”

Hermione huffed, folding her hands and looking up at Pansy.

“Well, I haven’t really been fond of various objects in my face since that Quidditch game in our third year.” She glanced at Draco, turning her head to the left. 

He rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation. “How many more years do I have to apologize?”

“Well, I think seventeen lifetimes will be enough,” she smirked. 

“You two are impossible. And I’m divorcing _both_ of you,” Pansy huffed. 

“Honey, we’re not even married yet,” Hermione and Draco answered at the same time. 

Three of them looked at each other and cracked up. It took them about two minutes to calm down. Still, Hermione was sure their laughter would be bouncing off of the compartment’s walls for a few more minutes. 

“Okay, we _clearly_ have to make a rule about not making any marriage-related jokes, considering the situation we’re in,” Draco said, eyeing them with all the seriousness he could muster. 

Pansy smirked.

“Yeah, sure, no more marriage jokes. I swear on Salazar Slytherin’s life.”

“He had been dead for ten centuries,” Hermione reminded her.

“Yeah, that’s like the whole point.” Pansy laughed and winked at Draco, who couldn’t help but smile in response. 

Hermione shook her head ever so slightly, letting her hair spread on her best friend’s lap. They were going to get back to their Trying Every _Bertie Bott’s_ Flavor Except the Gross Ones task when the compartment’s door suddenly swung open. Hermione raised her head slightly, ready to see the Trolley witch and ask her for two more boxes of _Bertie Bott’s Beans_. That was when she realized it wasn’t the gray-haired witch with her signature welcoming smile standing in front of them. There, leaning on the doorframe and smirking, stood Bellatrix Black herself. 

Hermione jumped up from her seat and sprinted towards the older witch, grabbing her hand instinctively.

“Bellatrix! You’re here!” 

Bellatrix looked puzzled at the touch, furrowing her eyebrows. However, Hermione couldn’t seem to register it, yanking her inside and seating her next to herself. She was also utterly oblivious to Draco’s mouth hanging open and to the smirk’s on Pansy face, giving all of her undivided attention to Bellatrix.

“You’re really here!” Hermione exclaimed breathlessly once again, a broad smile spreading across her face. She couldn’t help it. Although Bellatrix said they would see each other on the train, the brunette wasn’t sure she was actually on it when they left the Hogsmeade station. 

“Well, just like I promised you.” Bellatrix crooked up a smile. 

“I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t see you at the station. I thought you had disapparated from Hogsmeade,” she explained hesitatingly. 

“You should’ve had a lot more faith in me, pet,” the older witch said, grinning in amusement. “I did almost miss the train, though.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing to worry about.” Bellatrix shrugged. “Just some last-minute shopping.”

“What did you buy?” Hermione inquired, smiling. “Is it the Christmas present for me?”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “As if I would breathe even a single word out about it. What have I been telling you for the past month? Be patient, pet.”

That was the moment Hermione had actually _pouted_ , the same way her professor did daily. Bellatrix’s eyebrows shot up at that, the corners of her lips quirking up a little. It was as if she had expected it, in some way, as if it was just a matter of time for her. 

“Aunt Bella? Mione?” Draco forced out.

Hermione looked at her best friend, startled. To her embarrassment, she forgot about him for a moment. She eyed him quickly, noticing a slightly opened mouth, raised eyebrows, and a sheer confusion evident in his features. When she trailed his gaze, she was suddenly aware of the fact that she was still holding Bellatrix’s hand in hers. She gasped and tried to withdraw it, but to no avail. 

“My dearest nephew,” Bellatrix said half-solemnly. She peered over Hermione’s shoulder, probably to throw a quick glance at Pansy. “And Parkinson. Long time no see.”

Hermione thought that the older witch’s voice was like thick honey, sweet but overly so. A look of utter pleasure was etched in Bellatrix’s face. It wasn’t hard to tell she was reveling in reactions Hermione’s actions brought on.

“What the—I mean, I’m glad to—but what are you—” Draco stuttered, and Hermione couldn’t help but giggle, instinctively moving closer to Bellatrix.

But if Draco was speechless, shocked, and dumbfounded, Pansy, on the other hand, was ecstatic. She quickly jumped from one place to another, now facing Hermione and Bellatrix.

“I knew it! I _knew_ it!” she shrieked, looking at them and repeatedly hitting Draco on the shoulder. “See, I told you it _was_ her! Give me these ten galleons!”

Hermione furrowed.

“What in Rowena’s name are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Mione,” Pansy interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “I know you’ve been going to Professor Black’s private quarters every evening for like a month now.”

Bellatrix chuckled, tilting her head a little and looking at the brunette, her eyes gleaming with something undetectable. There was this playful smile, and Hermione’s mouth formed a small _oh_ as she tried to prepare herself for what was coming. 

“Looks like Snape should’ve been the least of your worries when you feared you would get spotted leaving my room this morning,” Bellatrix smirked. 

Yikes. 

To contrast with sheer disbelief and horror in Hermione’s features, Pansy looked like she was going to pass out from excitement, wide-eyed and with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh. My. Fucking. Salazar.” 

“ _Bellatrix_ ,” Hermione hissed, tugging at the hem of the witch’s traveling black cloak. 

“What?” she asked with a look of blatant innocence on her face. “I thought she already knew this.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“ _Sure_ you did.”

While they were eyeing each other, Pansy kept on bugging Draco until she had hit the boy in the face. Its color was almost identical to his platinum blonde hair. 

“Okay, your aunt totally has been shagging Mione! It’s forty more galleons, bring it on!” Pansy shouted. 

If it was physically possible for her eyes to roll out of their sockets, Hermione was sure they would. Instead, her jaw hung open while her grasp on Bellatrix’s hand tightened so much she would probably end up leaving a bruise on the tender skin. To her surprise, Bellatrix had actually seemed baffled at such a suggestion, too. 

“Parkinson, what the actual _fuck_?” she seethed. 

“Well, it’s been kind of obvious. You give Hermione bits and pieces of special attention on DADA classes, and you’ve always asked her to stay behind and ‘help with something’—I’ve been thinking of it as a secret code for a make-out session or something like that,” Pansy started rambling rather cheerfully. At these words, Draco looked like he was going either to pass out or throw up. Hermione didn’t know which option would be more preferable right now. “And last few months? I mean, you both couldn’t be more oblivious,” Pansy huffed. “Salazar, I still can recall every one of those remarks you made when Draco and Hermione were sitting together in your classes. I think that’s what they call jealousy,” she snickered. Bellatrix stiffened beside her, while Hermione clenched her wrist even tighter. “And Mione’s visits to your private quarters—they became much more frequent, and, really, judging by all of this unresolved se—”

Okay, now Hermione was sure _she_ would pass out sooner than Draco. She didn’t think she would ever be happy to hear Bellatrix’s low, menacing voice.

“Parkinson, if you even dare to even _think_ about finishing that sentence, I’ll feed you to the Giant Squid and make it look like you volunteered for it.”

Only when Pansy’s smile faltered, Hermione found her voice.

“Wh—Pans, I mean—It’s not—”

She decided not to say things like ‘ _It’s not what it looks like’_ , thinking it would do her no good. She shut her mouth and turned her head to look at Draco a little bit helplessly. Well, at least now, when Pansy was done talking, the color was slowly returning to his face.

“Draco,” she breathed out. 

“Merlin, Mione, I’m literally _begging_ you—for Salazar’s sake, tell me Pansy just went completely, utterly mad.”

“She totally did.”

Pansy tried her best not to look offended. “Hey! I haven’t! There were signs!”

Bellatrix growled. “Okay, I’m explaining this only once, Merlin be damned. And you’re not allowed to ask _any_ questions. Do you understand, Parkinson?”

A young Slytherin witch nodded eagerly, while Draco appeared to be much more interested in the discussion and less pale than he had been before. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to let go of the older witch’s hand. 

“We are _friends_. As in people who share beliefs and interests, spend their free time together, _just_ drinking tea and talking. Hermione stays after my classes to _talk_ to me. She goes to my private quarters to _talk_ to me,” Bellatrix emphasized as strongly and firmly as she could. “And yes, I’ve made quite a few comments on her relationship with Draco, but just because I was trying to alert her about the Malfoy’s proposal. _That’s_ it.”

“But what about her spending the ni—”

“Pansy!” Draco hissed at her. 

“Parkinson, Hermione wouldn’t be dating her best friend’s _aunt_ , for Morgana’s sake,” Bellatrix quipped, rolling her eyes. Draco flinched at the words ever so slightly. Hermione was sure that if Pansy didn’t shut up, she would jump out of the window. “ _Friends_. Nothing more. If you dare to think of saying even one more word about it, you’ll get a new home. The Black lake. They say it can be quite cold.”

“Okay, I’m shutting up, but—”

“Pans, I’m begging you—” Draco and Hermione began at the same time. A young Slytherin raised her hands in defiance, closing her mouth.

The whole compartment fell silent. It was such a contrast to the laughter bouncing off of the walls just ten minutes ago that Hermione had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. That was the moment she realized she was still grasping at Bellatrix as if the older witch was the only thing keeping her from drowning. The brunette quickly let go, muttering a muffled, “I’m sorry, it’ll probably bruise. I can cast a quick charm if you’d like?” she asked timidly. Bellatrix just shook her head, quirking her lips in a small smile. 

Draco spoke up after a few more minutes, running his hand through his hair. He laughed somewhat breathlessly. “Well, this has taken a rather interesting turn.”

Hermione chuckled. “You don’t say.”

“Well, we’re forgetting something significant,” Bellatrix chimed in, grinning mischievously. “Parkinson, those forty galleons you were talking about—”

Pansy groaned, burying her face in her hands. Mere seconds later, a peal of hearty laughter filled the compartment once again.

* * *

Hermione’s heart partially stopped as soon as Hogwarts Express arrived at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. She took in a deep breath and lingered in the compartment for quite some time, letting her friends go without waiting for her. She absolutely _had_ to pick up empty Chocolate Frogs boxes. Draco and Pansy apparently bought it, but Bellatrix wasn’t that oblivious, so she stayed behind with her.

“You didn’t have to do it,” Hermione muttered when she was done with her task that wasn’t more than a weak attempt to buy some time. 

“I know,” Bellatrix answered simply. 

Hermione was drowning in her thoughts. The feeling was making her more overwhelmed the closer they got to the King’s Cross Station. She just couldn’t help but think about meeting Narcissa after all those years. What if the older witch looked at her and ended up hating her? What if she wasn’t good enough? Her traveling cloak was expensive and exquisite, chosen by her mother; it was one of a kind, made by Madame Malkin herself specifically for her. But what if Narcissa preferred _Twilfitt and Tattings_? What if she hated the navy-blue color, which was Hermione’s signature one, and not only because of her House? 

She looked herself over and frowned. She should’ve probably used some makeup, just in case. Her mother would want her to braid her hair. Even though her locks were less chaotic when Bellatrix’s curls, it could still use some hairspray just to fixate it. 

Moreover, what would she say? _Hello? Good evening, Madame Malfoy? It’s good to see you after all this time? You look absolutely ravishing?_ Hermione blushed after that last option popped into her head. She hadn’t even seen Narcissa yet, but somehow, she was sure the blonde-haired witch looked gorgeous. Was there even a compliment that would help her to appreciate Narcissa’s beauty the way she deserved? Hermione doubted it. 

“I can hear you thinking, pet,” Bellatrix interrupted the train of thoughts racing through Hermione’s mind.

Her head shot up, and she glanced at the older witch rather helplessly, worrying her lip. “What do I do?” 

“Well, for starters, you go out of here,” her professor said, making her roll her eyes. “Yeah, I know, it’s _that_ simple. Just remember what I’ve told you. Don’t try too hard. Actually, I don’t think you have to try at all.” The words were mysterious, accompanied by a shrug and a barely noticeable smirk. “Just be yourself.”

Hermione furrowed. “But—”

Bellatrix tilted her head and tsk-ed.

“No buts. Stop overthinking and go.”

She looked at her professor with doubts and ‘buts’ evident in her features but stood up and straightened her cloak. Hermione headed towards the door, and it took her about two seconds to realize Bellatrix was still seated comfortably. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting the older witch’s gaze. “

Are you going?”

Bellatrix smiled in that noticeably sincere way.

“Of course. I’ll be in a minute,” she said. When Hermione didn’t move, she waved her hand at the younger witch, her smile growing a little wider. “Everything is fine. Go. You got this.”

Hermione took a deep breath and left the compartment, walking as slowly as she could. She couldn’t fight the urge to linger in the corridor a little longer, hiding behind her Prefect duties: a group of Gryffindor second-years was refusing to leave the train until they would find their toad. She felt a tiny pang of guilt when she wished the toad wouldn’t be found at all: that way, she wouldn’t have to leave the train so soon. 

Eventually, Hermione emerged from the Hogwarts Express and headed to her friends, who stood nearby, silently praying not to stumble and embarrass herself.

Of course, that was precisely what she ended up doing. 

Her breath hitched as soon as she caught a glimpse of Narcissa. The front platinum-blonde strands were pulled back, revealing her face, but the rest of her hair fell down the back and over her shoulders. Her traveling cloak was of a dark emerald-green color, with a thin silver belt around her waist. Narcissa stood there, towering over everyone present and drawing everyone’s gaze to herself, but paying no attention to anyone except her son. 

Hermione moved forward rather hesitatingly, worrying her lip in a way her mother absolutely loathed. She was mere steps away from Narcissa and her best friends when the older witch turned her head slightly to the right and ended up meeting her eyes. The brightest shade of blue was the last thing she saw before she got tangled up in her own feet and started flying to the concrete floor. 

_What an excellent way to make an impression, Hermione, she_ thought. _Bellatrix_ _didn’t_ _probably mean ‘be an awkward mess’ when she told you to be yourself._

However, her implausible fail wasn’t the one thing that surprised her the most. It was the fact that she never hit the ground. Before she could even do or say anything, Hermione found herself standing upright in someone’s arms. Her head shot up, and she met Bellatrix’s onyx eyes.

The black-haired witch was smirking ever so noticeably when she said, “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re already falling. It’s a good thing not for someone, but rather to the ground.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying to come up with a reply, which wouldn’t be half as witty as Bellatrix’s words anyway, but she had to at least try. 

“Bella.” 

Hermione turned her head so fast she was surprised it didn’t fall off. Her attention was drawn to the blonde-haired witch once again, while Madame Malfoy looked at her older sister in a somewhat unreadable way. Hermione frowned, studying Narcissa’s features. Her face still was of that pale aristocratic shade it had been all those years ago, but her sky-blue eyes—there was something different about them, something she couldn’t quite grasp. They were still clearer than the sky, deeper than the ocean and brighter than the moon, as she used to say when she was ten or eleven, but something was missing. 

Still, Narcissa commanded attention. Her voice was demanding, judging by this one word she had said to her older sister. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. On the contrary to Narcissa’s appearance, which literally screamed ‘winter’ to everyone’s face, Hermione mildly associated her with autumn. Narcissa was a warm rain in the beginning of September, a crescent moon shining in the dead of night, an elf-made wine and a lipstick of the same color.

“Cissy!”

In contrast to her younger sister, Bellatrix was an embodiment of spring. For Hermione, it was mostly how she carried herself; she was at ease even when she was rigid. The eldest Black was chaotic at times, but beautifully so. Bellatrix was the first spring day when the snow melted, vibrant green leaves, a bottle of the strongest firewhiskey, and an ear-splitting laugh echoing from the trees. For Hermione, she was an open book.

The Black sisters shared a quick hug, and it did catch Hermione’s eye that Bellatrix chose to take place beside her once again instead of standing anywhere else. The brunette shuddered slightly and relaxed, somehow finding this little gesture oddly comforting. 

“You usually stay at the castle every year for the Christmas break,” Narcissa started thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly to the left. 

Hermione noticed how similar it was to the way Bellatrix did that, but at the same time, it was entirely different. When it came to Bellatrix, the gesture was playful, like all of it was a part of the game, and she found herself winning or losing. With Bellatrix, it had always been accompanied by the kind of mystery that wasn’t a mystery at all. But with Narcissa… Narcissa’s expression was serious and thoughtful. There wasn’t even a hint of playfulness or that easiness Bellatrix was so notorious for. 

“I know,” Bellatrix replied, and Hermione thought it sounded awfully like a conversation they had over a month ago. 

“For whatever reason, you enjoy being there at that particular time of the year,” the blonde-haired witch continued. 

“I know.”

“You are not deeply fond of parties or balls, which I’m so notorious for.”

By that point, Hermione was mere seconds away from thinking that Narcissa Malfoy was using Legillimency on her older sister. 

“I know.”

And then Narcissa frowned. It was a barely noticeable frown, but it was there. Somehow, it fitted perfectly with her features. This shade of confusion in her expression—slightly raised eyebrows and blood-red lips parted just a little bit—made her seem younger. It made her seem real and even more astonishing than she had already been. 

“You sound like a broken record.” 

The frown was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Hermione found herself enjoying this particular exchange between the Black sisters. It brought her back to this morning, the way vulnerability in Bellatrix’s onyx eyes was replaced by something different just in split seconds. It dawned on her that Bellatrix and Narcissa were as similar as they were different. 

“That I know too,” Bellatrix laughed.

After that, they fell silent, and it felt like the whole Platform Nine and Three Quarters fell silent with them. Hermione cast a quick glance at her friends. Draco was standing a few feet behind his mother, talking with Pansy, Astoria, and the Lestrange girl in hushed whispers. When the brunette focused on Narcissa once again, her breath hitched. The blonde-haired witch was looking right back at her, or, Hermione would say, _staring_. The gaze was intense, piercing, as if looking directly into her soul. There was something in it she couldn’t quite place, though; it was barely noticeable, hidden so well behind the sky-blue orbs, but Hermione _knew_ these faint lines at the corners of the eyes. Bellatrix had always done the same when she was curious, but she believed ‘curious’ was too simple for Narcissa. If Hermione had to guess, she would go with _intrigued_.

The thought was oddly satisfying. Was there a chance Madame Malfoy was actually intrigued by her? Narcissa’s eyes were nothing she had ever seen, but before she had an opportunity to study them further, the blonde-haired witch averted her gaze rather quickly. 

“You know I always look forward to seeing you,” Narcissa began carefully, looking at her sister even more intensely, “but I would ask you to notify me when you choose to visit. The guest room you tended to occupy was prepared for someone else,” she explained. 

Bellatrix ignored the last part almost entirely. “Oh, you didn’t get my letter?” She batted her eyelashes in a completely adorable way, and Hermione found herself looking down to hide her smile. “The owl must have died on the way to the Manor. You know, it’s often stormy these days.”

Hermione was sure that if Narcissa Malfoy was the one to roll her eyes in annoyance, she would do it. But the blonde-haired witch wasn’t, so instead, she just pursed her lips and said, “You don’t have an owl, Bella.”

Bellatrix’s lips parted, and her eyebrows shot up, a feigned innocence evident in her features. 

“Do I? Oopsie.”

Hermione gave the older witch a gentle nudge to her side. Bellatrix glanced up at her, rolled her eyes, and looked at her sister once again, muttering, “I’m sorry for not owling you and everything. But if someone had gotten me an owl as a Christmas present, we wouldn’t be—”

She wanted to groan. Oh, Merlin, at the moment, she wanted to do it more than anything else. Instead, she remembered everything her mother had taught her about manners and said, in the most ladylike way she could, “ _Bellatrix_.” 

Her voice wasn’t pure ice, like her mother’s; it wasn’t even cold at all. To her, it sounded like a silent plea, but she hoped it seemed more confident and mature to everyone else. To Narcissa. 

She threw a quick glance at the older witch, meeting her eyes just for a split second. The exchange made her tremble with something completely unexplainable. Somehow, being noticed by Madame Malfoy felt even better than getting eleven Outstandings. 

She looked at Bellatrix once again and saw her professor grimacing. Hermione couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Sorry and blah-blah-blah. I’ll be happy with any other room you prepare for me,” the black-haired witch said. It was too good and too polite to be true, so Hermione decided to count from ten to one while waiting for the inevitable. She was on five and a half when Bellatrix added, “If Lestrange is not the one occupying my old one—her last performance in my class was absolutely horrible, she’s lucky to even get a Pass grade. Parkinson is out of the question too, especially after that little stunt she pulled o—”

“Bellatrix,” Hermione hissed at the same time Narcissa did. 

If Hermione had to describe it with one word, she would pick ‘electrifying’. That’s what their voices mixed felt like. Narcissa’s voice lacked that huskiness Bellatrix’s had, but there was something else in it, something that sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. Her voice was like liquid silver, and the signature Slytherin-like hiss complimented it better than anything else. 

“Can we go now? I’m hungry.” Bellatrix chimed in, making the brunette look away. 

“Of course,” Narcissa replied. She glanced over her shoulder. “Draco, will you be a gentleman and take Ms Greengrass and Ms Lestrange for a Side-Along?” When Draco nodded, the blonde-haired witch turned back, while Pansy made her way to stand next to the woman. “It leaves two of the girls to you and me. Bella, can you be so kind and take Ms—”

“Nott, you said?” Bellatrix interrupted, stepping closer to Hermione and taking her hand. “Okey-dokey.”

By that point, Hermione was ready to pray at her professor. She was quite skilled at Side-Along, but her stomach certainly wasn’t. The last thing she wanted to do was to throw up on Narcissa Malfoy’s dress, which possibly costed more than all of her clothes combined. 

Before Hermione knew it, everything went black, except a few glimpses of the clearest blue clouding her mind.


	3. standing up & standing out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, say hi to Narcissa Malfoy, while Hermione keeps gay panicking and being absolutely adorable.
> 
> P. S. I'm a little behind on answering comments, but I just wanna say that each and every one of them warms up my heart in a really special way. Thank you all so much for reading & commenting. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **for my home, my heart, my family <3**

Hermione stumbled upon something the minute her feet had touched the thick layers of snow, causing her to take a tiny step back. The next thing she knew for sure: there was a squeak coming from her mouth as she slipped, and she instinctively grabbed a hand that was right next to her. Considering who was her partner for the Side-Along, it could belong to no one but Bellatrix.

They both flew straight to the ground and found themselves covered in snow just mere seconds later. Hermione was lying next to the black-haired witch, her head resting on the woman’s shoulder. She sat up as quickly as she could and glanced at the older woman, wide-eyed, opening and closing her mouth like a broken doll. 

Bellatrix stood out even more than usual. The mess of black curls was sprawled against the blindingly white snow, and pieces of it were stuck in a couple of strands of her hair like some kind of an ornament. Some of the snow melted on her face, judging by the wet spots on her left cheek and chin.

Still, that wasn’t the most important, the most startling thing. Instead, it was the fact that Bellatrix wasn’t mad or pissed off as Hermione half-expected her to be. The older witch was smiling widely, baring her teeth and shaking her head in slight amusement.

Hermione chuckled and started thinking of a witty response, something in the lines of, “Well, now I can see why Pansy thought I would _fall for you_.” But before she had a chance to say anything, there was a rustling of clothes right next to her. She turned her head to the left, and just like that, a small hint of playfulness in her features was gone. Because she found herself looking right back into the sky-blue eyes of Narcissa Malfoy. 

“Ms Nott,” the older witch breathed out, her eyes flickering with something unreadable just for a second. “Are you alright? You didn’t sustain any injuries because of that rapid fall, did you?”

Hermione blinked once, then twice, as if trying to comprehend what the woman in front of her had just said. After that, she opened her mouth to say at least something, then closed it, and then she had repeated the whole process a few more times. It looked like her mind was giving a realization of what fool she had made of herself some time to kick in. 

“Ms Nott, I would very much like for you to give me a clear verbal answer so I could rule out you having a concussion.” This time, Narcissa’s voice more demanding than the last, as if she knew for sure she would get everything she wanted by using it. 

Hermione licked her lips nervously.

“I’m c—”

“Salazar,” Bellatrix cut in, sitting up with an unsatisfied frown. That vibrant smile from before was gone, replaced by a slightly irritated one. “She is _fine_ , Cissy. Her head hit my shoulder, not the ground. Calm down.”

“I would be much calmer if I received an answer to the question Ms Nott was asked. _Ms Nott_ , not you.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Relax, she was just going to tell you she was completely fine.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. “ _Or_ she was going to tell me she was coming to a realization she might have hit her head on the ground and suffered a concussion.”

The next second, the eyes of both the Black sisters were on her, and Hermione found herself studying them both. Bellatrix was irritated just the tiniest bit, but she was mostly amused by her sister’s reaction. It looked like she enjoyed somewhat teasing her sister, but personally, Hermione didn’t understand what was so funny about that. When it came to Narcissa, Hermione realized that she seemed genuinely worried. It was there just for a quick moment at the very beginning of their conversation, but it _was_ there, Rowena be damned. But now, Narcissa appeared completely impassive, except for the faintest hint of annoyance at her older sister’s behavior.

For a split second, Hermione wished she had gotten the concussion Narcissa was talking about, just so she could say, “Yes, Madame Malfoy, I think there’s something wrong with me, you’re absolutely right.” But it looked like she all but lost an ability to express her thoughts and voice her opinions. 

“Merlin, Mione, are you okay?” she heard Draco say.

Her head shot up instantly. Her best friend stood was towering above her, his mother and his aunt, with a rather impressed and intrigued Pansy hovering right beside him.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” Hermione muttered. One of her conversations with Bellatrix popped into her head, and somehow, just like that, she realized what she wanted to say. She met Narcissa’s eyes once again and offered her a timid smile. “Unfortunately, clumsiness doesn’t go away with age. The only difference is, now, I don’t get to read a devastatingly interesting book right after I fall.” 

The corners of Narcissa’s lips quirked up just a little, but it was enough for Hermione. Somehow, it still felt like a win that the blonde-haired witch seemed to remember how desperate a young Ravenclaw was for knowledge back at the time.

“Well,” Narcissa began, “I believe I can arrange for that to happen sometime after dinner.”

“I would appreciate it.” Hermione tilted her head and looked down just for a second in a sign of silent gratitude. 

“Cissy, if you’re finished, I want to take you up on that room offer you were talking about earlier. I’m soaking wet,” Bellatrix cut in. Hermione heard a rather audible snort coming from Pansy, praying their professor wouldn’t notice it. When she looked at Bellatrix again, she realized there was no chance Pansy’s reaction had gone unnoticed. Bellatrix broke into an overly pleased smile, leaning on her hands and tilting her head. “My _clothes_ are soaking wet, Parkinson. Don’t get your hopes up. You won’t be getting your money back in this tiny little lifetime of yours.”

Hermione caught a glimpse of a frown on Narcissa’s face, but that time, she wasn’t surprised when it was gone a mere second later. The blonde witch eyed both her older sister and Pansy rather carefully and inquired, “What is this about?” 

“ _Nothing_ , mother,” Draco squeaked, lumping forward. Hermione put her hand over her mouth to try to hide a laugh, while all of Bellatrix’s annoyance transformed into sheer amusement. “I think it would be better if we go in. The girls might be a little cold, especially Mione. You and aunt Bella can continue this conversation over dinner.” 

Narcissa just nodded once and stood up in the most elegant way Hermione had ever seen anyone do. The older woman brushed the snow off the bottom of her traveling cloak and fixed her hair with a gentle flick of her wrist: all the strands that had fallen out were back in place, completing the sophisticated ensemble.

Hermione was pulled into an upright position a couple of seconds later by Bellatrix, who winked at her and wiggled her eyebrows. It left her puzzled. She had no idea what it could have possibly meant. She decided to let it go and just rolled her eyes playfully in response, catching up with Draco and Pansy, who went a little ahead. 

She walked in the middle, arm in arm with both of her best friends, to ensure she wouldn’t slip and have another epic fall in front of everyone. They discussed a brief exchange of the Black sisters in hushed whispers, Draco being rather serious about this and Pansy being… well, her Pansy self. Hermione couldn’t help but laugh a little at everything her best friend would say, because every time she did say something, Draco ended up groaning or begging her to stop. 

They had been walking for about twenty-five minutes before they got to the Manor’s main entrance, and Hermione let out a relieved breath as soon as she saw the massive black doors. Because of tons and tons of advanced wards protecting the place to its core, it was possible to apparate only to the gates of the Manor and not inside. However, you could still disapparate while you were inside of the Manor, but at the same time, you couldn’t use apparition as a method of moving on the territory. In twelve-year-old Hermione’s mind, it was one of the most fascinating things about this place. 

Throughout the years, Draco had grown used to it and wasn’t so excited about it, but Hermione genuinely enjoyed taking long walks in her free time, just like she was doing it now. However, Pansy was a different story. When they stopped discussing Narcissa and Bellatrix, a young Slytherin started groaning every now and then and whining at how tired she got. It had always been a little bit harder in the winter, with all the snow lying around, but Hermione didn’t honestly think it was that bad, even when Draco said, “Pans, if you don’t shut up for more than a minute, I’ll end up carrying you to these doors myself.”

Pansy grinned as if this was all she had been waiting for.

“Bridal style, I assume? That would be too soon, don’t you think?”

Draco groaned rather loudly as both Pansy and Hermione burst out laughing, their heads falling back.

“For Merlin’s sake, Pans, I thought we decided to cut in on the marriage jokes.” Even though Draco seemed annoyed to his core, Hermione saw everything behind it. She noticed how his lips quirked a little bit, just like Narcissa’s did almost half an hour earlier. She knew Draco was enjoying this little banter and teasing match as much as both of them. 

“Well, Salazar Slytherin is still dead, isn’t he? Owl me when you bring him back to life or something, and then I’ll stop.” Pansy shrugged carelessly, a wicked grin still on her face. “Maybe.”

Draco ran his free hand over his face. “You’ll be the death of me one day, woman.”

Hermione laughed. “Pans, I think we ought to cut him some slack.”

Pansy’s eyebrows shot up, and she put her right hand to her chest, exhaling sharply with fake indignation. “He gave me an opening. I couldn’t help it.”

Draco looked at her, waiting for her reply as if she was his most trusted lawyer. She nudged the boy playfully and said, “Well, Pansy certainly has a point here. I mean, I wouldn’t be able to hold back either.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “Oh, we both know you would.” 

Hermione shushed him with another small nudge to his side and hurried forward, dragging her friends along. They stayed silent for some time, and Hermione finally had an opportunity to think about this strange feeling that she couldn’t shake off since the minute they started walking. It took her a couple of minutes to recognize her for what it could possibly be. Although she wasn’t one hundred percent sure about her guess, she leaned into Pansy’s side and whispered, “Hey, can you glance over your shoulder unnoticeably and tell me what Bellatrix and N—um, Madame Malfoy are doing?”

It was indeed smooth and unnoticeable: Pansy made it look like Hermione had just said something incredibly funny to her and laughed softly, leaning in to whisper something in response. It allowed her to glance back at the Black sisters, and Hermione could feel Pansy gasping in surprise. 

“What are they doing?” Hermione asked eagerly as soon as her best friend turned to her. 

“They’re… talking, I think,” Pansy answered vaguely, frowning a little. “And watching.” 

“Watching? Draco? You? Astoria? Cassandra?” 

“No, I think they’re both watching you. And talking about _you_ , if I had to guess,” Pansy whispered, feeling her best friend stiffen immediately. “Or maybe not. Astoria is right behind us. They might as well be so interested in her,” she added as quickly as she could. 

Hermione didn’t really have any time to bombard her best friend with various questions, because the three of them finally came to an abrupt stop right in front of the Manor’s main entrance. She quickly looked back but didn’t see anyone except Astoria and Cassandra trailing behind. She frowned and turned her head to the door, noticing that Narcissa was already standing there in her full glory, accompanied by Bellatrix. 

“Am I crazy, or were they behind us just mere seconds ago?” she whispered, leaning into her best friend’s side. 

“If you’re crazy, then you’re not alone,” Pansy replied, as confused as Hermione was herself. 

They ascended the stairs, and Hermione did everything in her power not to trip over them. Fortunately, she was quite successful in not making a fool of herself once again, but it all came crashing down as soon as all of them stepped into the hallway of the Malfoy Manor. 

She gasped rather audibly, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Somehow, the Manor had become even more impressionable and alluring throughout the years she hadn’t visited it. Hermione noticed that Narcissa had redecorated it just a bit: shades of the dark navy blue were here and there, combined with the witch’s signature emerald green color. The floor was still of dark wood, but Hermione didn’t expect anything else. Two staircases remained as massive and elegant as they had once been. There were portraits of Narcissa’s parents and grandparents Hermione hadn’t seen before, and moving family pictures of Narcissa with either Draco, Lucius, or Bellatrix. Hermione was sure she caught a glimpse of her own face somewhere, but before she could think of it, there was a clear authoritative voice coming from right in front of her. She quickly looked at the blonde-haired witch, their eyes colliding one more time. 

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor, ladies. I’m pleased to have every one of you here. I hope, as well as firmly believe, that you will enjoy your stay and find it quite… lucrative,” Narcissa said, clasping her hands in the most exquisite way Hermione had ever seen anyone do. “Considering you are here as the guests of the Malfoy family, there are some rules you’re expected to follow,” she kept on.

Before Hermione could do anything about it, she was led away from Pansy’s and Draco’s sides, finding herself standing next to Bellatrix. The older witch leaned in and started whispering the exact words Narcissa was saying, mimicking her little sister rather mercilessly, though Hermione could hear a hint of great affection in her voice.

“The breakfast is held at half-past eight every morning except for the weekends when the timeline moves up to nine. The dinner starts at half-past seven, but I expect everyone down here and looking absolutely flawless ten to fifteen minutes before that time. We do not have a set lunchtime, so everything you have to do if you get hungry is to call for the chief house-elf and ask him whatever it is you need,” Narcissa explained, while Hermione kept trying to shush Bellatrix. The words the youngest Black, now Malfoy, was saying were pretty much the same Hermione had heard since she was seven. Personally, she liked Narcissa’s rules, an entire concept of family breakfasts and dinners, and an ability to do anything during the day, not bothering to interrupt something interesting for lunch. 

“Speaking of which, every one of you will be assigned a house-elf, who will tend to your every need during your stay.” Narcissa’s voice was measured, and she sounded like she practiced that same speech dozens of times, which was probably true. Still, Hermione caught a glimpse of slight disapproval and something entirely different and unreadable in the older witch’s eyes when they flickered to her. However, Hermione couldn’t possibly define what the second thing was. “You’ll have a chance to get acquainted as soon as we ascend to the second floor. They will escort you to your rooms that will become yours permanently for this Christmas break, an Easter break, and three months of the summer holidays.”

Hermione heard Bellatrix murmur something inaudible at these words, and Merlin, she hoped the room that used to be her professor’s wouldn’t be occupied by Pansy. 

“There won’t be any special events except for the ones you already know about. That includes a visit to Diagon Alley on the 24th of December, a private Christmas celebration the next day, and an annual New Year Ball on the 31st. You are expected to be present at every one of them, but if for some unbeknownst reasons you are unable to be, you ought to notify me in advance.”

Hermione barely registered the words, knowing them all too well. Instead, she found herself studying Narcissa rather closely.

The older witch seemed even more elegant in the dim light of candles, and the dark interior of the old victorian Manor had complimented her beauty just like blindingly white snow outside did minutes ago. Hermione thought that standing in that foyer, Narcissa looked composed first and foremost, as if she reveled in the feeling of keeping everything under her control. Somehow, it made her look somewhat delicate as well, but Hermione wasn’t sure anyone else could have spotted it, except maybe for Bellatrix. 

As she observed earlier, it was the way Narcissa carried herself. At the train station, she looked much more rigid, with her shoulders straightened out in the most unnatural way, and a chin held so high Draco would jokingly say it could touch the sky. There wasn’t anything like that now. Now, it was as relaxed as Narcissa could probably be while surrounded by the prospects of her future daughter-in-law. 

“You are allowed to wander around the Manor for all that you like, but I would prefer you not to enter master bedrooms, conservatory, and my personal study. Have I made myself clear?” 

“Yes, Madame Malfoy,” said every last one of them, except for Draco, to whom this rule didn’t apply, and Bellatrix, who just muttered a very stubborn _maybe_.

Hermione nudged her a little, receiving an adorable childish pout in response. She fought the urge to rolls her eyes. Instead, she averted her gaze and sent Narcissa the most apologetic look she could muster. The older witch seemed to notice it, but she quickly glanced at her son and the girls around him, so Hermione couldn’t have possibly seen her further reaction.

“My husband deeply regrets that he is unable to spend this Christmas with us all since he is away on a business trip to France,” Narcissa continued. Hermione perked up and began listening more carefully. “However, he insisted I pass to all of you his only request, which I ask you to comply with,” she sighed, and Hermione thought the older woman looked like it pained her physically to say the next words. “Please, do _not_ stress out the peacocks.”

Draco groaned at that rather loudly, while Pansy started shaking with laughter. It was so bad she had to actually lean on Draco, and Hermione began giggling as well. She remembered the day her best friends recalled; she had gotten the letter about it an hour after it had happened over a year ago. Pansy stressed out the peacocks to annoy Draco, which resulted in the poor creatures running over the estate for hours before Lucius managed to calm all twelve of them down. However, Narcissa was furious because the peacocks destroyed her lovely garden and her favorite white roses. Pansy described everything as _“distressed peacocks noises, distressed Lucius noises, and Madame Malfoy’s menacing voice, which was even more intimidating and terrifying than_ _Professor Black’s when Crabbe and Goyle acted profoundly dumb and blew something up in class four days in a row_ _.”_

“I hope we came to a mutual understanding with all the rules I have listed. Now, follow me.”

Hermione caught a glimpse of platinum-blonde hair when the older witch turned her back to them and headed towards the massive staircase at the right side of the foyer. Everyone trudged along, gaping in awe as they ascended, and Hermione managed to make small talk with Cygnus Black’s portrait. Moments after that, she had to drag Bellatrix away from Walburga’s one because apparently, they had decided a shouting match was a brilliant idea. 

Four house-elves, three of them in matching Slytherin-green pillowcases, and the fourth elf in a navy-blue one, were waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Narcissa introduced all of them, and Hermione found herself looking at the elf assigned to her with rather noticeable interest. She greeted him politely, getting a small smile and a quiet _“hello, Ms Nott”_ in return. For the next four or five minutes, she was listening for Bellatrix’s not-so-satisfied murmurs, chuckling from time to time. When she finally looked up, she realized Narcissa and Bellatrix were the only ones left standing there except for her and Dobby. Her best friends, Astoria, and Cassandra Lestrange must have reached their bedrooms by now.

“Tell me it is what I think it is,” Bellatrix said, and it took Hermione a few seconds to realize her professor wasn’t actually speaking with her.

The corners of Narcissa’s lips quirked up once again, but that time, her smile seemed bigger and brighter than it had been before. At the same time, it wasn’t big at all; rather tiny, actually, but still as bright.

“Follow me, please,” she told both of them and headed out of the upper foyer, turning to the left and disappearing behind the corner. 

Hermione cast a quick glance and Bellatrix, a silent question evident in her hazel eyes, but the black-haired witch just grinned mysteriously and dragged her after her. Hermione looked around, and something inside of her clicked when she recognized these walls. She knew that path.

“Are we going to—” She tried to ask, growing excited with every step made towards the place she dreamed of visiting again. (Quite literally. She had actual _dreams_ about being back in the Malfoy Manor library).

Bellatrix shushed her as her grin grew even wider. When Hermione was ready to try her luck once again, they came to an abrupt stop. She had to take a small step back to avoid colliding with Narcissa.

“What are we—” 

Narcissa was the one who interrupted her, which was as _unMalfoyish_ and _unBlackish_ as it could possibly be, in Hermione’s opinion.

“This is your room.” Her voice was slightly breathy, and there was a small, almost unnoticeable smile tugging her lips. Narcissa’s words were like warm raindrops against cold skin. 

Hermione looked the way the older witch was looking and gasped immediately. She knew this guest bedroom. She had dreamed of staying there since she was eight, because it was the room closest to the library. When they were ten or eleven, Draco even managed to convince her there was a hidden pathway through one of the paintings, which led to the endless number of shelves with different kinds of books. She wanted to find out if it was true ever since.

“Wait, it is?” she asked just in case, eyes wide open and a goofy smile instantly appearing on her face.

“I thought you would find it enjoyable, being that close to the library,” Narcissa explained, clasping her hands. Hermione couldn’t help but cast a quick glance at a delicate silver ring with small emeralds on her right hand. “I know you—” she cut herself off, pursing her lips, and Hermione leaned forward just a little. Somehow, she was sure Narcissa wasn’t going to say something as obvious as _“I know you_ _like_ _reading”_ or anything of the sort. No, it was something else, Hermione thought. “The room happened to be occupied by Bella previously, but since my sister didn’t seem to find it necessary to notify me she was coming, I decided you would be most comfortable here.”

“I can’t find words good enough to thank you for your hospitality, Madame Malfoy,” Hermione replied softly, turning to Bellatrix right away and speaking with her from now on. “But I must ask if you don’t mind me staying in that room.”

“It’s no big deal.” The black-haired witch shrugged simply, but it wasn’t enough for Hermione to let this go. Bellatrix rolled her eyes rather dramatically, but relented. “Of course I don’t mind, pet. I hope you’ll like it here. My main concern is that you will spend all of your nights here reading, but I guess it’s not so different from Hogwarts, is it?” Bellatrix inquired jokingly.

“Ms Nott,” Narcissa said in a voice that was almost like a laugh, but there was no depth and meaning enough for it to be one. “Care to share with me some stories on what Bellatrix is talking about?”

“I assure you have absolutely nothing to worry about, Madame Malfoy. Your sister accuses me of something that isn’t entirely true.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Well, McGonagall did find you at night, roaming the corridors with a few books from a Restricted Section, didn’t she?” 

Hermione couldn’t help but gasp at that, appalled. “Do I need to remind you that _you_ were the one who gave us an essay on a topic not featured in other books—”

“Details,” Bellatrix rolled her eyes, a noticeable smirk gracing her features. She was clearly enjoying this _too_ much.

“It sounds awfully like something you would do, Bella,” Narcissa chimed in, a hint of amusement lacing her tone—or maybe it was disapproval? Hermione really couldn’t tell. Before she realized it, the older witch tilted her head in her direction and said, “That essay you mentioned. What grade did you get?”

“Outstanding, Madame Malfoy,” Hermione replied, not even trying to suppress a small but proud smile that made its way onto her face.

“I see.” She nodded, studying her carefully. “You’re considered to be the best student in all of your classes. Is that correct?”

Hermione frowned. “I suppose so.”

“Why the uncertainty?”

“I don’t think I have the right to call myself the best until it’s proven.”

“I seem to remember you setting a new school record with your O.W.L.s results half a year ago. Isn’t that proof enough?” Narcissa questioned. Her voice was confident, leaving no room for questions, and Hermione thought everyone else would undoubtedly answer _yes_ to everything the older witch had said. 

“Well, I’m not that far from you. I heard the previous record was yours,” Hermione said, the corners of her lips quirking up. She didn’t miss the way Narcissa’s eyes darted towards Bellatrix just for a couple of seconds before setting back on her. “If you don’t mind me asking, what subject wasn’t worthy of your attention?” she inquired, almost one-hundred percent sure of the answer she would get. 

“Do you have any guesses, Ms Nott?” At that point, Hermione was ready to bet her life that she just saw a real _smirk_ on Narcissa’s face. However, it disappeared rather quickly, and she found herself looking at the older witch’s eyes in hopes of seeing something, _anything_. Unfortunately, the only thing she managed to make out was a flicker of candlelight reflected in the sky-blue eyes.

“I would say Divination.”

“That’s quite right,” Narcissa muttered. “I could never understand anyone’s fascination with that particular subject.” 

Hermione heard Bellatrix murmur something about Professor Trelawny but couldn’t focus on it enough to catch it.

“I’m not fond of Divination either,” she chuckled slightly, accompanied by Bellatrix saying that it was the biggest understatement of the century. “I don’t think it’s possible—”

“To learn anything in that class,” Narcissa finished for her, and just for a quick second, a reflection of candlelight wasn’t everything Hermione could see in her eyes. It wasn’t the playfulness Bellatrix possessed, not quite, and she didn’t know for sure what it could’ve possibly been. However, she did know Narcissa Malfoy usually wasn’t the one to interrupt people—it was probably against all etiquette rules pure-blooded girls were taught since the beginning of ages—but with Hermione, she already did it twice.

Hermione found herself deeply enjoying it. She could talk about Divination for hours on end if it meant seeing Narcissa like this.

“ _Books can take you only so far in this field_ ,” she mimicked Professor Trelawny, scrunching up her nose and making her voice a little bit too high-pitched even for her own taste. She heard Bellatrix snort at the words but couldn’t take her eyes off of Narcissa as the blonde’s eyes widened rather comically. “My reaction was precisely the same when Professor Trelawny said that. I had to fight the urge to walk out of the classroom straight away.”

“Why didn’t you?” Narcissa questioned. Hermione recognized the gaze almost immediately, piercing and intense, but somewhat softer this time. It formed faint lines at the corners of the older woman’s eyes while they were shining with something akin to intrigue.

“Pansy and Draco looked too satisfied at how startled and a bit outraged I got after Professor Trelawny’s introduction speech,” Hermione admitted hesitatingly as if fearing that for some reason, the mention of her best friends will put everything to the stop. 

It did. 

Somehow, it felt like they were in a strange bubble before, the one no one else was granted access to, not even Bellatrix. It was the undertone in Narcissa’s voice, the corners of her lips lifted just a bit, and her eyes that weren’t cold at all despite their sky-blue shade. And just like that, the bubble was burst at the mention of Pansy and Draco, as if they were strangers, not people they both deeply cared about.

“Bellatrix, let me show you to your room,” Narcissa said, her tone being a needed proof that this wasn’t a request.

Bellatrix muttered something and moved forward, passing Hermione and brushing her hand as unnoticeably as she could in the sign of silent support. However, it seemed like nothing could go past Narcissa—she narrowed her eyes at the gesture and sent Hermione a puzzled and questioning look. It was gone the next second, and suddenly the older witch’s eyes showed nothing but the emptiness and feigned disinterest (it had to be feigned, Hermione thought, it just _had_ to be). 

Hermione didn’t look down. Instead, she studied both Narcissa and Bellatrix, who were now standing right next to each other. It was a genuinely maddening, confusing sight.

Her professor slouched a little, and Hermione managed to notice at least six different emotions flickering in her expression just in those couple of seconds her eyes were settled on the older woman. Bellatrix was frowning, averting her gaze from Hermione to Narcissa and back, and overall seemed incredibly lost in thought; something the brunette didn’t see often but could still distinguish from every other state of Bellatrix’s mind. With her rustling skirts and the mess of untamed black curls, with slight twitching of her lips from time to time and those onyx eyes showing everything she had thought of, Bellatrix was an embodiment of imperfection, chaotic in its beauty.

Narcissa was an entirely different story. With her shoulders squared, her chin slightly raised in a manner that commanded attention and _obedience_ , with her lips forming a thin line, and her _eyes_ , those sky-blue orbs reflecting only emptiness and disinterest and the flickering of candlelight, Narcissa was literal perfection. But there was something rather disturbing about it, Hermione thought, something that wasn’t quite right. As if it was a broken kind of perfection; the one that seemed spotless on the outside but was fractured on the inside. 

“Ms Nott,” Narcissa began with an elegant nod, “I hope you’ll find your accommodation acceptable. Dobby will be here to help you with anything you might need. If you have any problems regarding your accommodation, do not hesitate to contact me. I expect to see you downstairs in an hour.” Her voice was monotonous, somewhat robotic even, and Hermione thought it was the voice of a true pureblood hostess. Still, it felt terribly wrong coming from Narcissaand accompanied by an impassive expression. 

Hermione nodded briefly and gave her what she hoped looked like a decent and sincere smile. Narcissa caught Bellatrix’s left arm in hers and proceeded to walk away, but the black-haired witch lingered, making her younger sister stop abruptly. Hermione saw a questioning look Narcissa sent her sister’s way, but Bellatrix ignored it completely, focusing on Hermione. 

“Will you be alright?” she asked.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Yeah.” When the older witch still didn’t at least semi-convinced, she added, “I think I’ll unpack and then spend some time with Draco and Pansy. Maybe I’ll owl to dad before going to them, though. He must be—” She cast a quick glance at Narcissa who currently tried to look like she wasn’t listening to their conversation. She shook her head and watched as a gentle smile appeared on Bellatrix’s face, along with understanding. “See you at dinner?”

“See you,” Bellatrix murmured just seconds before she was led away by Narcissa.

Hermione didn’t dare to move until they reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner. 

* * *

As soon as Hermione stepped into her designated room, it became abundantly clear that it was occupied by someone else before. It was small details here and there, so insignificant that Narcissa hadn’t probably noticed them. A few books on Defense Against the Dark Arts and on Dark Arts themselves gave the previous occupant of this room away. Hermione stepped closer to the table in front of the window, picking up a massive worn-out book. She went through it rather quickly, seeing various notes almost on every page, made in small, messy, but albeit beautiful handwriting that she noticed on Pansy’s and Draco’s essays for their DADA classes. When Hermione remembered it, her lips formed a somewhat satisfied smile. She had always thought of it as her personal achievement, the fact that Bellatrix seemed to like every one of her essays and barely made any notes except for encouraging smiley faces she would draw here and there.

She put the book away and turned around, noticing her trunk next to the bed. Hermione seated herself on the edge of it, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. The room was beautiful, and the thought of Bellatrix occupying it not so long ago gave Hermione an odd feeling of comfort, allowing her to relax a little. Still, it was somewhat different from the rooms she got used to living in. While her dorm room in Hogwarts and her bedroom in Nott Residence were covered in navy-blue and bronze, this one was literally screaming _Slytherin_ right in her face, with its emerald-green cushions, chair, and carpet. The furniture—a bed, a couple of bookshelves on both sides of the door to the bathroom, a closet, two nightstands, a desk, and a chair—was made of dark wood, but Hermione could see little details made of silver here and there. 

Besides its closeness to the library, the room managed to fascinate her with something else. It was the view to one of the gardens, the main gates far, far away, and a massive fountain just half a mile away—though it wasn’t working due to winter season. Hermione thought it would become quite a lovely sight when she was back here in March. 

She was pulled out from her thoughts by a _pop_ just behind her. When she looked over her shoulder, there was Dobby in his navy-blue pillowcase, who stood out from the room’s interior almost as much as she did. 

“Dobby made sure Ms Nott’s owl has been relocated to the aviary and fed with its favorite food,” an elf said. “Does Ms Nott want anything else at the moment? Dobby is here to serve.”

“No, thank you,” she shook her head, the corners of her lips quirking up in a half-smile. 

Dobby nodded, bowed his head, and disappeared with the same _pop_. Hermione knew she couldn’t possibly let herself dwell in her thoughts; it was neither the time nor the place for this. She got up and proceeded to unpack her trunk, something she always enjoyed doing. Her mother loathed this, and the brunette was sure Aurora had a mental breakdown every time her daughter neglected a house-elf and did something like that all by herself. To be honest, she even thought of asking Bellatrix to teach her to cook at least the most basic meals, all for the sake of pissing her mother off. 

It took less than ten minutes to have all of her robes and cloaks hung in the closet. She placed all of her books and textbooks on the bookshelf and laid out some of her writing equipment on the desk. When Hermione was done, she wrote a short letter to her father, assuring him everything was alright, and that she was glad to be back at Malfoy Manor after all those years. She even added that Narcissa gave her a room just inches away from the library because she knew her dad would be as excited as she was. They always shared their love for both reading and learning. 

After setting an envelope with a closed stamp on the table, Hermione headed towards the closet. Unpacking was easier than choosing what to wear to dinner hosted by Narcissa Malfoy. Eventually, she decided on her mother’s favorite robes made of floaty, navy-peony material, and a pair of elegant black shoes. As soon as she was done combing her hair, she looked critically at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t sure she looked _absolutely flawless_ , but that would have to do. 

Hermione moved to the table across the room and took a packaging in her hands rather carefully. It was the books she had chosen for Narcissa, wrapped in a paper of a midnight sky color, with constellations and stars moving across it. 

This idea came to Hermione just an hour before she was due to leave Hogwarts for Hogsmeade with all of her classmates who would go home for the Christmas break. Although she had a general idea of how this could be done in theory, there was one quirky little thing: she wanted the celestial bodies to be displayed at the present moment. This was advanced magic, and it took her some time to remember where she’d seen something like that before. Eventually, Hermione realized her idea was almost exactly like the ceiling in the Great Hall. She hurried to find Professor Flitwick and asked him for help. He charmed the paper and also explained to her how he did it, step by step. 

Hermione felt herself smiling at the memory and once again wondered if she made the right choice with her welcoming gift. She shook her head in hopes of making Bellatrix’s words about Narcissa’s preferences linger and reached for her wand lying just next to five of her quills and bottles of ink of various colors. She shrank the packaging in size with a quiet _Reducio_ and put the miniature version of it in her robes’ outer pocket.

After grabbing the letter from the table, Hermione left her room, believing it would be an enjoyable evening if she didn’t _royally fuck up_ , as Pansy would always put it.

* * *

She knew Pansy’s room would be rather different from her own.

It was located in the West Wing, surrounded by Astoria’s room from the right and what Hermione assumed to be Cassandra’s room from the left side, all of them relatively close to Draco’s. Its interior wasn’t much different from the one in hers, but that was understandable, considering Pansy’s House. Still, her best friend’s room seemed more habitable than hers, with little details and small personal touches here and there. 

As soon as Hermione had entered, she realized this bedroom was so _Pansy_ in its nature. It was quite similar to the one her best friend had in Parkinson Estate, with the same moving posters of the Weird Sisters and piles of magazines on the bookshelves. Other than that, there were some plants she knew Pansy liked and pieces of clothes and parchment and various boxes of sweets here and there. Overall, the way Pansy was sitting on the carpet, her legs crisscrossed, seemed much more comfortable and casual than the way Hermione sat on the edge of the bed about twenty minutes ago. 

It became abundantly clear that while Hermione’s visits to Malfoy Manor had ceased over the past four years, Pansy’s hadn’t. She couldn’t help this nagging feeling at the back of her throat, swallowing hard in an attempt to get rid of it.

“Mione!” Pansy said excitedly and as soon as she had spotted her. “Come over here.” She patted the place on the carpet next to her, directly across from Draco.

Hermione closed the distance and plopped down on the carpet, trying not to think too much about how her mother would comment on her behavior or the state her robes would soon be in. She leaned against the wooden footboard, straightening her legs thoughtlessly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just some planning,” Draco answered, shrugging carelessly. The movement wasn’t as careless in this triple black suit as it had usually been when he was clad in his school robes. “We were going to wait for you, but Aunt Bella said you had to owl Uncle Archie. Everything alright?” There was a sheer concern in his voice when he frowned, and she couldn’t help but smile. 

“Yeah, totally. Just wanted to let dad know everything is fine, and that I got the best room ever,” Hermione said, pulling the hem of Pansy’s black-and-silver robes to her and beginning to play with it. Keeping her hands busy was somewhat soothing. When she looked up again, both of her best friends were looking at her questioningly. “Um, what’s with the plans?”

Pansy all but beamed with excitement.

“Madame Malfoy told us Crabbe and Goyle are coming over tomorrow just for a few hours, and Blaise might join them, so we were thinking of—”

“Let me guess—Quidditch,” Hermione finished for her.

Pansy rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep a playful smile off her face.

“You wouldn’t have to guess if you let me finish, you know.”

“And what’s the fun in that?” Hermione countered, nudging Pansy gently.

Draco rolled his eyes at their usual half-bickering. “You’re insufferable, both of you.”

Pansy just grinned at that mischievously, as if she prepared the perfect answer to that in advance. “Well, that means your chance of ending up with an insufferable wife is two times higher.”

Draco ran his free hand over his face. “Salazar, not again.”

Hermione grounded, throwing her head up and begging Morgana to make her best friend stop. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but let’s get back to discussing Quidditch. Please?”

“Oh, so you’re playing with us, then?” Pansy asked, lifting one of her perfect eyebrows. 

Suddenly, marriage jokes seemed much more preferable than dealing with this once again. Before she could say anything, Draco chimed in, mimicking her in the best way possible, with a high-pitched and somewhat outraged voice. “Only over _your_ dead body!”

“Please, Mione? Pretty please?” Pansy tried once again, batting her eyelashes somewhat adorably and childishly, which worked for Professor Flitwick in their first and second year. 

It was a good thing Hermione always managed to resist it, even when she was staring right back at those pleading grey-ish eyes with a light shade of green to them.

“Nope. Absolutely no way, Pans.” She turned to look at Draco. “I know you need more people, but I think Cassandra plays a bit. And you can call Tracey, or Daphne even, I’m sure N—your mother wouldn’t mind. And don’t forget about Astoria. You can teach her to play, too.”

Before Draco could respond, Pansy muttered, feigned offense lacing her tone, “One day I’ll ask you, and you’re going to agree to play with us.”

“Yeah, but I think we’ll have to wait for Salazar Slytherin to come back to life for this to happen, Pans,” Hermione laughed.

* * *

They spent the next forty minutes making plans for the following few days and discussing their housemates and teachers, something they weren’t able to do while at Hogwarts due to being in different houses and in the midst of it all. It was lighthearted and cheerful, and Hermione found herself relaxing more and more as if that feeling she was enveloped into while being at the Manor as a child was slowly coming back to her. They were inches away from opening the third box of _Bertie Bott’s_ for today when Draco reminded them they should hurry and go downstairs as soon as possible since being late to dinner wasn’t an option. 

It was somewhat strange, descending the stairs as massive as these ones while not being at Hogwarts. Hermione heard hushed whispers of the portraits behind her, and soon Cygnus was complimenting her well-chosen robes—had he just said something about Narcissa and navy-blue? She couldn’t quite catch it. There were too many sounds for her because the next second, Walburga’s portrait demanded of her to ‘bring back this ungrateful little brat she used to call her niece so they could talk properly.’ Hermione shuddered at that and started walking faster. Before she knew it, she was downstairs and on the way to the dining hall, well ahead of Pansy and Draco. 

She heard them from afar—two voices so different but yet so similar. 

“When exactly did you make a decision to visit me for the winter holidays?” the first voice— _Narcissa’s voice—_ asked, low and silent, a bit curious, though. 

“Three weeks, maybe four… Time flies by incredibly fast, as you know,” another voice—Bellatrix’s—answered, husky and a bit high-pitched. Even without seeing the older witch, Hermione could tell Bellatrix was smiling, that small playful smile of hers Hermione absolutely adored.

Next, there was silence. Hermione leaned forward but didn’t even hear any movements until Narcissa spoke up again, “It was the day the girls received their letters, wasn’t it?” It was the question, but to Hermione, it seemed like Narcissaalready knew the answer. Her breath hitched when a thought that maybe they were talking about _her_ occurred to her. 

It looked like Bellatrix chose to stay silent, but that was confirmation enough for her younger sister. The silence wasn’t exactly awkward, but Hermione realized there was a slight undertone to it as if the Black sisters hadn’t actually named the things they meant. As if they could understand what one another meant without spelling everything out. 

“She asked you to come, didn’t she?” Narcissa’s voice was leveled and didn’t give anything away. At that point, Hermione was sure she was the topic of their discussion. She stepped closer to the slightly opened door, wondering about too many different things. What would Bellatrix’s answer be, a truth or a lie? Why was Narcissa so interested in something of this insignificance? 

Her professor chose not to say anything again. It was clear Bellatrix wasn’t willing to confirm her sister’s assumptions, but neither did she want to lie to Narcissa. After that, there was a rustling of clothes and the sound made when a chair was pushed back. Suddenly, it was so quiet Hermione couldn’t even hear the wind howling outside or her friends’ voices behind her. She thought this was the reason she actually jumped when Narcissa’s voice broke the spell of silence once again, about a full minute later.

“I would prefer if you told me if you were upset with me instead of doing… whatever it is you doing.”

“Merlin, Cissy,” Bellatrix hissed, and Hermione caught a hint of slight irritation in her tone, mixed with evident affection. It had always been there whenever she talked with her sister or about her. “What do you want me to say? That I’m mad? That I’ve spent weeks—even _months_ trying to talk you out of this, and you wouldn’t budge?” The phrasing, the voice itself reminded her of how Bellatrix acted in classes, scolding her students every now and then. “You needed valuable options. _Find me an option as excellent as this one_ , you said. Hadn’t I given you enough of them, Cissy? Much better ones, if I may. And for a split second, you had me actually believe you wouldn’t go through with this,” Bellatrix spat out. It was all hushed whispers, low and a bit outraged, as if it was boiling inside of her for quite some time. “But you did. And I tried. I really tried to do at least something about it, give a warning, but—”

Narcissa interrupted her, “There wasn’t an option as excellent as this one, and we both know that, Bella.”

“Oh, cut the fucking crap.” Hermione thought she actually heard Narcissa _gasp_ at these words. “What we both know is that there was, and not one but dozens. _You_ chose to not let go of your first choice, and you were perfectly aware that I didn’t like it from the very start.”

“What do you want me to say?” The words were almost bitter, Hermione thought. Sincere emotion, as clear as the sky on a cloudless summer day, out in the open. Hermione couldn’t say it wasn’t surprising. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Bellatrix seemed tired, exhausted even; her words were accompanied by an exasperated sigh. “I guess you can’t just call it off… can you?”

“The official statement has been made. It will be in the papers tomorrow morning. There is nothing I can do about it now.” 

Hermione frowned, fidgeting with the hem of her robes nervously.

_One second. Two. Fifteen. Twenty-seven._

The frown on her face deepened as some sort of realization washed over her. Bellatrix seemed concerned, and Narcissa seemed… Narcissa, for the lack of a better word and the understanding of the older witch’s emotions. Hermione’s mind was a whirlwind of questions she had no answers to. Had Bellatrix been trying to get her out of the equation by finding another suitable option? Did Narcissa turn every last one of them down and chose her? Had Bellatrix and Narcissa been fighting—in their elegant, confusing, ladylike, decent and affectionate way—since the day her professor found out her sister’s pick for Draco’s future wife? 

“It’s not something I’m interested in doing, either,” Narcissa kept on, startling Hermione once again. “At that point, we both know it’s—”

“Her best shot. A win-win for everyone. I get that, but still—”

“Oh, fuck _off_.” Hermione heard next, her eyebrows shooting up. There was _no_ way that was Narcissa. Besides, the voice wasn’t coming from inside the dining hall, but rather from somewhere behind her, if she had to guess. Feminine, a bit irritated and confident, just with the right amount of huskiness— _Pansy_. Indeed, as soon as she glanced over her shoulder, Hermione spotted her best friend, with Draco trailing right behind the black-haired witch. 

“I really hope that wasn’t meant for me,” Hermione smirked, taking a few steps away from the door.

“Well, not today.” Pansy nudged her playfully, making Hermione roll her eyes. 

“We had a _delightful_ encounter with my Great-Aunt Walburga,” Draco explained.

Hermione chuckled knowingly. “Oh, Merlin.”

Pansy let out an exasperated sigh, straightening her robes.

“Exactly! I swear, she’s the most first-class bitch of all first-class bitches. I have no idea why Madame Malfoy still hadn’t set the damn portrait on f—Madame Malfoy! Professor Black!” Pansy squealed and actually _jumped_ in surprise.

Hermione turned around and found that the door to the dining hall was wide open, and Bellatrix and Narcissa stood right in front of them. The eldest Black was wearing a smug smirk, clearly amused at Pansy’s outraged words that she and her sister undoubtedly overheard. Still, Hermione was sure her best friend wouldn’t face any repercussions from their professor, considering that Bellatrix wasn’t a big fan of Walburga herself. However, Narcissa was an entirely different story. 

Hermione found herself staring at the blonde-haired witch once again. Even though _staring_ wasn’t the word she would use. In her opinion, she was rather watching, with a slight hint of admiration in her expression.

Narcissa changed her robes, she noticed. These ones were made of silky velvet material of an emerald-green color, looking much more regally than the robes she had on at King’s Cross. Her hair was done exactly the same way, though, but Hermione liked it. It made it easier to look at the older witch’s eyes, although she wasn’t able to read anything in them, for the most part. Hermione wouldn’t have even noticed it—Narcissa’s gaze being averted to Bellatrix just for a split second—if she hadn’t been looking so closely. It almost looked like the blonde-haired witch agreed with everyone’s opinion on her Aunt but wasn’t entirely comfortable with showing it to anyone.

“Ms. Parkinson, I would prefer if you refrained from discussing my choices regarding any family matters,” Narcissa said coolly. Her voice was even, and for a quick second, Hermione thought the older witch wasn’t breathing at all. Narcissa’s voice made Pansy flinch a little, and just a moment later, her best friend was muttering her sincerest apologies. 

“Quit scaring the poor girl, Cissy,” Bellatrix interjected, her arms crossed, that smug smirk still in place. “It’s a part of _my_ job, which I’m being paid for. I can handle Parkinson on my own, believe me.” Her smile grew even wider when she cast a quick glance at a flushed Pansy and added,” She can actually tell you quite a few stories about what a _great_ handler I am.”

Pansy actually yelped, burying her face in Draco’s shoulder. Hermione couldn’t blame her best friend. She looked at Bellatrix, who was currently busy with feigning innocence and picking at her nails. Narcissa, who was standing right in front of her, was the only reason Hermione managed not to roll her eyes at that behavior. 

Somehow, her thoughts would always come back to the blonde-haired witch, as well as her eyes. She studied Narcissa carefully for a sign of any emotion that would betray the way the older witch actually felt. There was nothing. She shifted and made a small step forward, the movement drawing Narcissa’s attention to her.

“The smell coming from the dining hall is marvelous,” Hermione commented, a small smile tugging her lips. “I’ve been dreaming of roasted chicken since the last time I had it for dinner back at Hogwarts. Though I am sure your elves managed to do a much better job.” 

Narcissa sent her another unreadable look, but Hermione thought the other witch seemed somewhat pleased with her words. At that point, she was praying she didn’t just make a complete fool out of herself, _again_. Because it sure looked like she was perfectly comfortable doing it whenever she was around Narcissa Malfoy.

“I assure you, you will be satisfied,” Narcissa replied. “I happen to like roasted chicken myself.” There was something behind that, and Hermione could sense it without any real effort. Maybe Narcissa Malfoy used to sneak out of her dormitory during her first years in Hogwarts to wander into the kitchen and steal some chicken for herself during some lonely, cold winter nights? Maybe she liked to cook the meal herself, had a detailed notebook with her favorite recipes handwritten and perhaps even drawn? You could never know. 

“Speaking from experience, then?” This came out on its own. A little playful, but just the right, the perfect amount, and somewhat—not quite teasing, but rather cheerful. Something light and sincere, something that half-displayed the questions she wondered earlier, putting them out in the open only for Narcissa to see.

Narcissa seemed baffled at her choice of words, at some kind of familiarity in them, at least compared to her previous statement. Hermione was too busy panicking and mentally kicking herself that she didn’t even notice this slightest change in Narcissa’s features. When the brunette was ready to take back her words, to apologize, to do literally _anything_ , the older witch spoke up.

“Actually, I am.” It was as simple as that, and Hermione found herself unable to do anything but blink. Before she could do anything, Narcissa was already moving and inviting them to the dining hall. 

* * *

The dinner was a lovely affair, very pureblood-like and following all the etiquette rules Hermione’s mother had taught her even before she turned five years old. Hermione was seated with Bellatrix on her right and Draco on her left, with Pansy right in front of her. Narcissa was at the head of the table, but she was mostly obscured from Hermione’s view by Bellatrix’s wide, messy curls. 

Bellatrix was an entirely different matter—she made this dinner bearable for her. Conversations mostly revolved around Hogwarts and plans for the future, with Narcissa mostly asking questions and Draco rolling his eyes at every one of them. Hermione found herself bored with the topic of their discussion very quickly, which didn’t go unnoticed by Bellatrix. It was then when the older witch moved her index finger, and a few black letters appeared out of nowhere on a napkin in Bellatrix’s lap.

_Bored?_

Hermione’s eyes caught the word almost instantly, and she looked up right after to meet Bellatrix’s sparkling onyx eyes. She nodded briefly, her polite, practiced smile still firmly in place, just like her mother taught her to. Then, her eyes shifted in the direction of the napkin, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to hide her growing smile. Because in place of this one word and the question mark, figures started appearing. 

The first one seemed to resemble a black ghost, and Hermione looked up for a second and raised her left eyebrow at Bellatrix. The older witсh tsk-ed almost inaudibly and moved her index finger a few more times. When Hermione looked down, there was a _page 394_ written in a tiny cloud next to the ghost, who, as it turned out, was actually an awful impression of Professor Snape.

She chuckled and took her hand away, reaching out for a glass of water and taking a few careful sips in a weak attempt to hide her grin. Meanwhile, her eyes never left the napkin, on which more images appeared with each passing second. Another figure ended up being The Giant Squid, and soon the infamous creature of the Black Lake advanced on the tiny version of Professor Snape and swallowed him whole. At that, Hermione actually choked on her water, putting the glass on the table and coughing. She instantly felt that everyone’s attention was drawn to her, while Bellatrix’s hand found its place between her shoulder blades. However, before the older woman had a chance to ask if she was okay or even say anything, another voice filled the dining hall. 

“Ms. Nott,” the voice was Narcissa’s, polite and a bit distant, but with the hints of something behind them. Their eyes met, and Hermione slightly gasped at how piercing Narcissa’s gaze was, this electric shade of blue that seemed to see right through her. “Are you quite alright?”

“I am, Madame Malfoy. Thank you for your concern.” Hermione nodded briefly, the corners of her lips lifting up in a small smile. She paused and then added, “Looks like I was too eager to eat more of this roasted chicken. It’s marvelous. Does it have red chili flakes in it?” She tilted her head, not taking her eyes off of the older blonde who seemed utterly baffled at the question. It took Hermione a few seconds to catch up to what she had just said; her eyes widened a little, but there was no rewind button, so she just sent another smile Narcissa’s way, a bit more self-conscious this time. 

“What are your plans for the future, Ms. Nott? Maybe you would like to share it with us?” Narcissa asked instead of acknowledging any of her words. However, Hermione saw how the woman’s eyes briefly flickered to a place where Bellatrix’s hand disappeared behind Hermione’s back and then settled back on her face, _something_ clearly evident in them. In Hermione’s opinion, it was awfully close to curiosity. 

Some part of Hermione wanted to tell the older woman the truth—there was something about Narcissa that urged her to do it, and she had absolutely no idea why. Narcissa’s smile was a formal one, polite and sweet and welcoming but not overly so, the picture-perfect Pureblood Smile with a touch of something personal, the air of elegance and finesse that could be found only around Narcissa Malfoy and no one else. 

Hermione wanted to say that there were a couple of excellent wizarding universities all over Europe, in France and in Italy and in the Netherlands, too, and that she was strongly considering applying to at least five during her final year in Hogwarts. Hermione wanted to say that she craved traveling after finishing school more than anything else because the only traveling she had known so far were the visits to Scotland with her parents every once in a while, just for the sake of her mother reconnecting with some friends or her father meeting up with his distant relatives. Hermione wanted to tell Narcissa about her desire to go to Sydney, Berlin, Brussels, Saint Petersburg, and many other cities all around the world. She wanted to say that law sounded appealing to her, as well as writing and teaching, so how could she possibly choose between those three? 

Instead of saying all those things, Hermione said what was expected of her. It was etched in her brain by now. The words that fell out of her mouth sounded foreign, probably because they played on a loop in her head in her mother’s voice, cold and scathing and overly judgmental. _Finish the school with the perfect record, get married, be Lady of the House._

Something too similar to disappointment painted Narcissa’s features for half a second as soon as Hermione replied, but it was gone in an instant. Still, she was reasonably sure it _had_ been there in the first place. She tried to think what was wrong—her answer was almost identical to Pansy’s, she knew that. Astoria’s and Cassandra’s probably weren’t too different from hers either, so what was the problem, exactly? 

Hermione shook her head and looked to her right, settling her eyes on Bellatrix instead. The older witch’s eyes were warm and not piercing at all, but she was eyeing Hermione curiously and switching her focus to her younger sister every few seconds. Bellatrix’s hand between her shoulder blades was warm and comforting, and Hermione chose to revel in it, leaning back just the tiniest bit. 

Dinner ended within the next hour, and as soon as the entire ordeal was finished, Narcissa stood up. Hermione watched her out of the corner of her eye, the way the older woman’s every movement seemed twice as elegant as it could be if she was wearing a different dress. Narcissa eyed them all carefully, her expression giving nothing away, and then offered to relocate to the parlor. Everyone followed suit after her. 

The manor’s parlor was half the dining room’s size but was decorated almost exactly like the rest of the house; hardwood floors, dark wooden furniture, signature Slytherin colors in little details here and there: pillows, walls, paintings, chess figures. Hermione looked the room over with the slightest hint of curiosity, trying to stay as close to Bellatrix or Pansy and Draco as possible. She had never been there before—children weren’t allowed in the room that was considered a game room most of the time. 

She walked up to one of the chess tables in the furthest corner of the room, leaving everyone behind without even noticing it. The figures were custom-made, black and silver ones with little Slytherin symbols on all of them. They moved from time to time, poking one another or just outright glaring, and Hermione let out a sigh. She heard a rustling of the robes right after that, and when she looked up, Narcissa was standing right next to her, eyeing Hermione somewhat quizzically. 

“Barbaric, don’t you think so?” Hermione asked, looking back at the chess figures. She couldn’t deny the beauty of the custom-made pieces, fitting so perfectly well to their owners, but the idea of these little things destroying each other just for the sake of a game didn’t sit right with her. Narcissa would probably think she was acting silly, Hermione thought. 

She met Narcissa’s eyes once again, and it didn’t take her long to notice a change in the older woman’s expression. It became not quite relaxed, but something oddly similar to it; her lips quirked up in the tiniest of smiles just for a second.

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Hermione smiled back, trying not to beam at the small reaction that disappeared almost right after that. Narcissa looked away, turned around, and strutted to the center of the room, where everyone was already seated, clearly waiting for something. And then it hit Hermione: that was the moment they would give their welcoming presents to the Lady of the House. She cursed herself for forgetting about that even for a second and hurried after Narcissa, taking a seat next to Bellatrix on a small couch. 

It all started with Pansy, whose present made everyone catch their breath for a few seconds. Because in an elegant and simple black box she gave to Narcissa was something Hermione had seen before only on fifty-year-old paintings in the Parkinson Estate. It was a thick necklace, a cascade of colored blue-white diamonds, and Hermione was sure that if anyone decided to sell it, their family would be able to live in luxury for the next nine hundred years. Astoria actually gasped after she had seen the necklace, grasping her own present a bit tighter, while Bellatrix tsk-ed and looked away, hiding her face from everyone’s view behind the mess of her curls. 

Astoria’s and Cassandra’s gifts were quite similar in their nature but different nonetheless. They both choose to give Narcissa exquisite first editions of books, the ones that were listed in that _Witch Weekly_ article Bellatrix mentioned earlier. Hermione would usually find herself excited at the prospect of having such books in close vicinity. Still, right now, all she could think about was the present she chose for Narcissa and how absolutely awful, silly, and completely, utterly _idiotic_ it was. 

“Don’t even go there, pet.” The words were barely above a whisper, but Bellatrix was suddenly so close that Hermione could hear them as clearly as Astoria’s voice or the sound of the clock ticking in the opposite end of the room. “Remember what I told you. I’m sure your gift is perfect, and she will love it. Just do it. Come on. Don’t be a scaredy-cat, for Merlin’s sake.”

If it wasn’t for a complete, full trust Hermione had in the older witch, she would question whether Bellatrix used Legillimency on her just now. Instead, she leaned even closer to her and asked, “What if she hates it?”

“Well, then she hates it.” Bellatrix shrugged. 

Hermione chuckled and rolled her eyes.

“Wow, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, pet,” the older witch said. “If she hates it, that’s her problem. You’re already _the_ _chosen_ _one_ , aren’tyou? This thing is almost irreversible by now. If she hates it, you will have tons of opportunities to make up for one wrong present. Cissy can be fairly easy to please sometimes,” Bellatrix smirked. “But just imagine how much you will lose if she doesn’t hate it. Because I’m pretty sure she will love it.”

“You can’t read her mind,” Hermione argued without any real effort. 

“Well, yes, who am I, after all? Just the woman who has been there all her life. I surely know nothing about her,” Bellatrix teased, rolling her eyes at least two times within her little tirade. 

Hermione just sighed and barely refrained from doing the same.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

She leaned back a little and cast a quick glance at Narcissa. She was standing and holding her newly acquired first edition of _Moste Potente Potions_. Hermione thought her hold was gentle, almost caring, even, but Narcissa had always treated every book exactly that way, so there was nothing surprising about it. She didn’t seem fascinated by it or interested in it, though, at least not enough to let her mask slip off even for a second. Come to think of it, the same happened with the necklace Pansy gave her; Narcissa was grateful, but she didn’t seem pleased or impressed.

Hermione breathed out a bit shakily.

“Okay. Can you do something so I could stay alone with Narcissa? Please?”

Bellatrix’s eyebrows shot up as her half-smile, half-smirk got even wider.

“Already thinking of tete-a-tete? How fast. What would your mother say?” she gasped mockingly, bringing her hand to her chest. Hermione didn’t even want to think about it, so she just settled on giving Bellatrix one of the meaningful looks the said mother taught her. “Okay, okay.”

Hermione leaned back on the couch while Bellatrix stood up, clasping her hands and drawing everyone’s attention to herself.

“Okay, girls and my dearest nephew, Aunt Bella is gonna show you to the library now. Follow me.”

The older witch’s stride was confident, and Astoria and Cassandra followed her without asking any questions, which was a little bit expected. These two were always looking at Bellatrix like she was some sort of goddess—again, nothing surprising here. Only a fool wouldn’t appreciate Bellatrix’s dazzling beauty or her sharp mind.

Meanwhile, Draco shot Hermione a questioning look but shrugged and simply followed after his aunt, almost quite literally dragging Pansy behind him. They were at the door when Pansy decided to open her mouth and say, “Already _Aunt Bella_ , Professor Black? Did I miss something?” Even though Hermione couldn’t see it, the teasing smirk was evident in her voice. 

“You better not try me, Parkinson,” Bellatrix shot back.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Mione?” Draco asked, looking back at her. She pursed her lips and smiled, shaking her head slightly.

“She has some unfinished business here left, so your dearest maybe-fiancée will join us later. Now, shoo, let’s go,” Bellatrix muttered as she ushered him out of the door. As soon as the older witch left the room herself, the door closed behind her, leaving Hermione alone with Narcissa. Come to think of it, her plan seemed better in theory. 

“Would you like to explain to me what just happened” Hermione heard. When she looked up, she spotted Narcissa barely one step away from the place she was seated at. “Because I’m not quite sure I understand.”

“You could call that your older sister helping me out.”

Narcissa blinked. “Oh?” 

Hermione saw it right away, the way practiced politeness shortly turned into confusion. It made the corners of her lips lift up in a small smile. 

“I’m afraid that my present for you isn’t what you expect, Madame Malfoy,” Hermione began, standing up. She fished the miniature-sized package out of her pocket and muttered _Engorgio_ , watching as it came back to its standard size. She gently clutched the package in her hands, her eyes lingering on the stars and constellations for a few seconds before she looked up to meet Narcissa’s, the hints of curiosity swimming in sky-blue. “I know you enjoy reading as much as I do, probably even more. But every book in your library I can remember is of an academic origin, so I thought you would enjoy some classic Muggle literature.” She swallowed and handed her the package with her right hand. 

Narcissa just stood there for a few seconds, or maybe minutes, just openly _staring_ at her. For some reason, her eyes didn’t seem that piercing anymore; it was as if the sky-blue softened at the edges, just the tiniest bit, but enough for something, _anything_ to become open to interpretation.

Eventually, Narcissa reached out and took the package, sitting down on the couch almost immediately. The older witch continued staring, but at the item in her hands now. Hermione would even dare to say that Narcissa was genuinely mesmerized by the brimming stars and constellations on the midnight-sky paper. Hermione had no idea how much time had passed before the woman spoke up—just that she already managed to shift her weight from one leg to another at least six times. (Her mother would disapprove.)

“It’s exquisite,” Narcissa said, even though it sounded more like she breathed it out or whispered it. Hermione watched as she gently trailed Orion with her index finger. “Just like—”

“The ceiling in the Great Hall,” Hermione finished for her, making Narcissa look up. Her eyes and expression were a mixture of everything unreadable in a good way there was in the world, and Hermione found herself smiling at her. “Professor Flitwick helped me figure it out. He mentioned that this spell is like any other spell. A little tricky, but—”

“Fairly simple when you know the tricks.” The corners of Narcissa’s lips twitched in a tiny smile, and it felt like a personal win to Hermione. She watched as Narcissa muttered an unknown spell, and the gift unwrapped itself. After that, the older witch carefully put away the packaging paper with stars and constellations, as if she intended to use it later. Maybe she wanted to study the spell? 

Hermione didn’t have the time to dwell on that as Narcissa looked down. Two books were lying on her knees, a hardcover copy of _Jane Eyre_ of dark grey-ish color, and a navy-blue copy of _Pride and Prejudice._ The books were worn, probably read by too many people to count, and Hermione could smell the faintest scent of old books even though she was one step away from Narcissa.

“Those are my favorite novels from classics of English literature,” Hermione explained. “I thought you might enjoy them.”

It was something else, watching Narcissa with books; the way she opened the first one and went through a few pages, breathing in and looking like she was already reading some parts. Then, she closed the book and touched its spine, especially the top of it, where the material has been the most worn, and after that, Narcissa looked at her and smiled. The smile was still small, not quite like the smiles Hermione used to get from Bellatrix or Pansy or literally anyone else who even remotely liked her, but this tiny little smile on Narcissa’s face? It felt as good as getting eleven Outstandings. 

Who was she kidding, though? Maybe even better.


	4. softness amidst books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm so behind on comments (finals are truly crazy), but I promise I will get around to answering to each and every one of them. They mean so much to me I can't possibly express it with words. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this _very _soft chapter!__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **for my love, who is always right <3 ******

It felt like walking on the moon, Hermione thought—getting a reaction like this from Narcissa Malfoy. Her mind immediately got back to the memories of Narcissa opening Pansy’s, Astoria’s, and Cassandra’s gift; to the sincere gratitude on her face and the lack of something that didn’t feel  _ just _ sincere but real, too. And then there was Narcissa, openly staring at a honest to Merlin  _ gift wrapping  _ Hermione thought of last minute. Then there was this smile, small and a bit soft and so,  _ so _ undeniably real that Hermione’s heart would do a little jump every time she remembered it. 

It had been only ten minutes since the time she and Narcissa parted ways, wishing each other goodnight, but Hermione’s mind brought her back to the memory of the older woman opening her gift already five times. Everything about this moment seemed so intimate, as well as the fact that she simply managed to even  _ get _ a moment like this. 

She should surprise Narcissa even more in the nearest future, she thought. Christmas was coming up, and she did have a gift prepared, the one chosen by her mother, a rare family heirloom Aurora was sure Narcissa would love, but Hermione wasn’t so sure of that anymore. She believed she had an idea ten times better than some diadem Narcissa may never put on; an idea she was fairly sure the older witch would enjoy. It was a little bit hopeful of her, but maybe, maybe they could—

“Wrong turn, pet.” Bellatrix’s voice made her jump a little as she brought her hand to her chest and rapidly turned around. Her professor was standing a few feet away from her. Bellatrix was leaning onto a wall with her arms folded and head tilted slightly to the left as if she spent some time watching her. 

Hermione looked around and frowned; she was just next to the staircase, facing the side of the second floor opposite to the one her room was located in. Surely, she was somewhat closer, was she not? Or was she really moving  _ that _ slowly? She hoped “walking on the moon” was a metaphor.

“You almost scared me to death,” she breathed out, taking her hand away from her chest and giving Bellatrix something akin to a glare. It lacked even the feigned bite, though, because some part of her mind was still occupied by the way Narcissa’s eyes seemed to shine brighter every time she would sneak a glance at the midnight-sky-colored paper with constellations and stars swimming around it. 

“It was fairly easy. You didn’t look where you were going at all,” Bellatrix huffed, pushing herself away from the wall. She took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them; her smile was warm, a little teasing, while the way she walked was the usual one—casual, effortless, almost even cat-like. “How did you even manage to get up the stairs? So dreamy…”

“I’m not  _ dreamy _ ,” Hermione argued, rolling her eyes. 

“If you’re not dreamy, then I’m Snape.”

Hermione chuckled and looked Bellatrix over with feigned thoughtfulness. 

“Well…”

“Think about your next words carefully, pet.  _ Very _ carefully,” Bellatrix warned, her voice dangerously low. However, her onyx eyes were shining with mischief as she added, “I have better hair, thank you very much. Snivellius needs a new hairstylist. Who is doing his hair? A blind gargoyle? A Giant Squid? Even goblins look nicer, I swear to Merlin…”

Hermione gave her a chastising look, letting out a smile. 

“Stop being so mean to Professor Snape, his hair is…” She tried to find a better description, she really did, but nothing came to mind. Instead, she just made a face, making Bellatrix give her a knowing glance. 

“See? I told you.” It was said in this adorable, kind of childish way Bellatrix spoke when she ended up being right and started gloating a little; in this way that always managed to make Hermione feel better even on her worst days. “But actually, I was wrong. I mean, Giant Squid has much more taste than  _ this _ . At least this damn creature always stays  _ clean _ , unlike Snape’s hair.”

Hermione bit her inner cheeks to keep herself from laughing out loud—Bellatrix’s words with the teasing but fake-serious tone she was using had always left her gasping for air. 

_ “Bellatrix.” _

The older witch just rolled her eyes. However, she couldn’t keep this small mocking smile off of her face. 

“Salazar, you’re so boring. Is that what fifteen minutes in Cissy’s company do to you?” she quipped. “I should be getting you out of here as soon as possible.” The words were obviously joking, but they seemed heavier, somehow, especially with the knowledge of Bellatrix’s and Narcissa’s conversation in the dining hall just before dinner. 

Hermione raised her eyebrow in a silent question, but Bellatrix just waved her off. Instead of explaining anything, she came closer, putting her hand on the small of Hermione’s back and turning her in the other direction. “Let me walk you to your room, or you will probably end up sleeping in the owlery or something.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but still started to walk at the same time Bellatrix did. They walked slowly, not really speaking. For the most part, Hermione was looking around, sometimes stopping altogether to gaze at the painting or a family portrait. It happened four or five times, and Bellatrix always had to forcibly make her move, reminding her that she would have much more time to look at everything tomorrow. However, as Hermione stopped for probably the sixth time, not so far away from her room, Bellatrix came to a stop next to her. 

In front of them, there was a beautiful portrait painting of the Black sisters in their youth. If Hermione had to guess, Bellatrix was about twenty when this one was made, making Narcissa sixteen and Andromeda eighteen. The painting itself seemed exquisite; every little detail about the Blacks sisters was portrayed perfectly and with an elegance and grace, which the House of Black was always notorious for.

Bellatrix was to the left of the big, imposing chair, while Andromeda was to the right. At some point, if you didn’t look close enough, you could make the mistake of thinking of them as twins. But Hermione did look very closely, with uttermost attention, and even though she had never talked to Andromeda, she knew Bellatrix well enough to be able to tell significant differences between these two. 

Even in the painting, Bellatrix’s onyx eyes seemed teasing, and her smile wasn’t quite a smile but rather closer to a small smirk. Andromeda’s eyes were a bit warmer, of dark chocolate color, and her smile was loving, and somehow a little bit sad. Hermione went back to her earlier thoughts and realized that the painting must have been done sometime before Andromeda eloped and got disowned by her parents. That was probably where the sadness in her eyes was coming from—the thoughts of what was soon to come. 

Andromeda’s hair was different from Bellatrix’s, too. It was less wild and less chaotic, and a few shades lighter. She was a bit shorter in height, and overall, her robes seemed to be a little less daring without the corset Bellatrix had on. 

But for all their glory, the center of the painting, the one whose Hermione’s attention immediately got drawn to, was Narcissa. She was seated in this large, imposing chair, her platinum-blonde hair framing her picture-perfect face. It was straight, let loose, and covering her custom-made Hogwarts uniform—she was the only one still studying at school. But for all the praise Hermione could have given Narcissa’s hair, or her ramrod-straight back, or the way her hands were covering one another in her lap, what left Hermione completely mesmerized was the way the painter portrayed Narcissa’s eyes. They were piercing and intense, looking right into Hermione’s soul and making her wonder whether Narcissa from the painting would step out of it any minute to greet her. Her eyes were icy-blue, or sky-blue, or maybe ocean-blue—Hermione could never even tell; she wasn’t sure any of the existing colors would do those magnetic eyes any justice. Narcissa Malfoy was simply breathtaking and spectacular when she was Hermione’s age. Still, now, all those years later, it seemed like her beauty and all the elegance and grace she possessed intensified at least ten times, if not a hundred, making her into a woman Hermione interacted with minutes earlier. 

“You’re staring,” Hermione heard from far away as she felt a nudge to her side. When she turned her head to the left, ‘far away’ turned out to be Bellatrix standing right next to her, so close that if Hermione breathed in sharply enough, she would get engulfed into Bellatrix’s scent right away. 

“I’m not,” she argued without any real effort, her eyes immediately going back to Narcissa on the painting. She kept looking at her, trying to piece this regal and sophisticated girl with a breathtaking and remarkable woman she had known before and was getting to know all over again. 

When she looked back at Bellatrix, the older witch’s eyebrows were raised, her eyes disbelieving and mocking. “Really?”

“It’s just a stunning and detailed painting, that’s it,” Hermione muttered. “Whoever worked on it did a marvelous job. All of you look gorgeous.”

Bellatrix’s expression not entirely changed but shifted to something a bit darker, the slightest frown clouding her features that were so calm and relaxed before. She stayed silent for quite a bit, looking at her painted version somewhat thoughtfully, maybe even calculating, before she finally said, “Mother still wasn’t satisfied.”

Hermione felt a pull, and she let herself be led away from the painting, even though she didn’t really want to. Bellatrix’s words rang in her mind, so unfamiliarly vague to her ears. It was hard to understand what Bellatrix referred to and what her mother wasn’t satisfied with—the painting’s quality or the fascinating beauty all the three Black sisters clearly possessed. Somehow, Hermione had a hunch it was the latter. 

They stopped right in front of Hermione’s door, Bellatrix’s hand still resting on the small of her back, making her feel warmer and calmer than she thought she would. Sometimes she got the impression that Bellatrix’s touch was like magical chocolate you got after you fainted or felt sick, calming and comforting and too good to be true, truly  _ magical _ and sweet, making this undeniable warmth wash all over you. 

“You were right,” Hermione said quietly, chuckling to herself. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, pet,” Bellatrix answered with her signature nonchalance missed with the slightest hints of mischief. She would always get like that when she knew exactly what Hermione was talking about. “As you very well know, I’m always right.”

Hermione rolled her eyes kindly but decided to not argue with the statement just this one time. “About Narcissa liking the present.” 

“Oh, so she liked it? How shocking,” Bellatrix gasped, bringing her free hand to her chest, her lips parting in teasing disbelief. “What a surprise! Would have never,  _ ever _ thought she would.”

Hermione couldn’t help but roll her eyes again, softly nudging Bellatrix. “Come on, stop it.”

“You’re too easy,” Bellatrix smirked. “And of course I was right. So, she liked it, yeah?”

Hermione paused, her mind going back to the memory that was probably etched in her brain forever by now. The way Narcissa couldn’t seem to stop staring at the wrapping paper for minutes, and the gentle and careful way she touched every one of the books that somehow seemed much more tender than when she did the same with the first edition of  _ Moste Potente Potions _ . And, of course, there was the highlight of Hermione’s day, maybe even the highlight of her school semester—this small smile in the very end, the one that seemed to be able to melt all the Arctic ice if Narcissa just decided to share it. But this smile, it seemed so rare, so…

“I think she loved it,” Hermione admitted, the faintest blush covering her cheeks. 

“I won’t say that I told you so…” Bellatrix trailed off. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, biting her lower lip to keep herself from smiling. 

“You do realize that you  _ did _ just tell me that, right?”

“Oh, really?” the older witch gasped with feigned surprise. 

Hermione smiled at Bellatrix’s playfulness, setting her eyes on the brunette’s face. As soon as their eyes met, onyx ones got softer around the edges, a teasing smirk replaced with a gentle, content smile. 

“Really, Bellatrix, thank you.” Somehow, it sounded much deeper, much more meaningful with a name put in the middle, and if a hitch in the older witch’s breath and the slightest rise of her shoulders were any indications, then Bellatrix realized it, too. 

“Anything for you, pet.” It was said casually, even off-handedly, but there was nothing casual about that. Hermione’s lips parted a bit, and she searched in her mind for anything, something to say. Before she had a chance, Bellatrix muttered, “It’s quite late, don’t you think so? You probably should go to sleep. These idiots are coming here tomorrow—they’re quite exhausting to deal with, believe me,” she huffed, lifting her chin a bit higher. Yes, she knew everything about dealing with Crabbe and Goyle since this one time Crabbe threw up right on her shoes in their second year. “You need to rest.”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully while her gaze got drawn to the door to the library on its own. “I will.”

Bellatrix snapped her fingers in front of Hermione’s face, immediately drawing her attention back to herself. 

“No sneaking into the library today, pet,” she said, deadly serious. “And I mean it. Wait until tomorrow. You’ll have the time.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest as her eyes caught an ancient clock nearby, the hand of it less than thirty minutes away from midnight. She schooled her features into an unreadable expression, having a hard time not to smile or smirk at the little loophole she just found. Instead, she nodded and said, “Yeah, okay. I will wait until tomorrow.”

Bellatrix seemed shockingly surprised by her agreement, her eyebrows shooting up in a silent question. Hermione just shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying she was simply exhausted after such a tiring, eventful day. 

“Get a good night’s sleep, okay?” Bellatrix said, her lips quirking up in a small smile, so hopeful and warm. She moved her hand from the small of Hermione’s back to her wrist, touching it as a sign of saying goodbye that somehow felt even more intimate than a hug ever could. 

Hermione nodded. “You too.” 

They smiled at each other once more, briefly but meaningfully. Bellatrix took a small step back, turned around, and started moving, and Hermione watched her walk down the hallway in this casual, a bit lazy way she often walked in. She sighed, turned back to the door, and opened it, slipping into her room. After the door was closed, she looked around it a bit apprehensively, still thinking of it as foreign. 

But she realized that she probably had enough time to make this room feel more like home. After all, home was never a place—it was a feeling, a person. 

* * *

Hermione slipped out of her room as soon as the clock hit midnight. She was out of her robes for some time, changed into her flannel sweatpants, and a very soft and comfortable dark-navy sweatshirt. Hermione tiptoed to the library door, the hardwood floor a little bit cold to her bare feet. She opened the massive door carefully, first peeking in and only then stepping inside. As soon as the door was quietly shut behind her, she looked around the spacious room. 

It looked exactly like Hermione remembered it; endless rows and rows of bookshelves filled with various academic tomes, the ones many people in Wizarding Britain would kill for or die for. Everything was made of dark wood, making the library seem more imposing and Slytherin-like with its little details of dark green and silver. There was a small seating area in the center of the room—two massive plush-chairs of slytherin-green color in front of the brightly lit fireplace. Hermione looked at it longingly but made her feet move, stopping between one of the gigantic shelves, her wand in her hands just in case she needed something from the top ones. 

And from this moment, it felt like she got a little lost in herself and in books. It was always like that, Hermione thought—books itself, the knowledge that came with them—were so consuming, but in such a good way. She remembered moving around, walking from one shelf to another, and taking some books she found interesting in her hands, but the memories were hazy as if she was sleepwalking. Or moon-walking—whatever metaphor fit better. 

It felt like choosing these books she pressed to her chess by the end took hours and hours on end, but it couldn’t be that she spent more than twenty or thirty minutes deciding between a couple of different options. By the time Hermione was finished, there was a stack of five or maybe seven quite heavy toms in her hands. She turned around, facing the small seating area a few feet away from her now, and took a few slow and measured steps before she suddenly heard, “It’s quite interesting.”

And if someone decided to ask—that was precisely the reason why Hermione jumped a little, gasped audibly, and unceremoniously sent all the books flying to the floor. However, before they could touch the dark-green carpet, all of them stopped in mid-air, only a few centimeters away from their downfall. Hermione looked up in the direction where the sound came from, looking quite alarmed. She was pleasantly surprised to spot Narcissa standing behind one of the chairs, her wand in her right hand.

“Merlin,” Hermione muttered, running a hand through her hair in a way her mother would sure not appreciate. She looked at the books hovering in the air and then met Narcissa’s electric blue eyes, which somehow seemed a bit warmer now. Maybe it was because of the fire? “You almost scared me to death,” she breathed out, not really registering what she just said and to whom. Hermione bent down to pick up the books, recreating a carefully crafted stack she had before, one by one. She thought she heard a soft chuckle, but Narcissa’s expression was entirely unreadable when she looked up. 

As Hermione straightened up and walked to the chair beside Narcissa’s one, she noticed a round table between those two. She put all of the books there, somehow remembering about manners last minute. Hermione looked up at Narcissa, who was still watching her, and said, “I apologize. Do you mind if I join you? I didn’t think I would be able to wait until morning to reacquaintance myself with this magnificent library and all the volumes you keep here.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Narcissa answered as she sat back down, gracefully and elegantly, picking up her book. 

Hermione sat down on her own chair, turning a bit to Narcissa to get a better look—she was too busy freaking out a little before. She swallowed hard, her lips parting a bit as she tried to bite back a gasp. Narcissa was wearing a long silk bathrobe of her signature slytherin-green color, tied tightly around her waist. Her long platinum-blonde hair was let loose, falling over her shoulders freely. Her skin had a warmer tone than her usual pale because of the light from the fire enveloping them in its essence, and Hermione found herself unable to look away. What did it, however, was the book Hermione noticed in Narcissa’s lap. It was a worn copy of Jane Eyre Hermione had given her earlier this evening. That little detail immediately filled Hermione with an unexplainable kind of warmth from the inside, making her skin tingle a little. As she breathed out, she deduced that all of it was simply because of the fire. Surely, it wasn’t because of the fact that Narcissa couldn’t seem to wait until morning to read the book Hermione gave her… right? 

“It’s quite interesting,” Hermione heard once again, focusing back on Narcissa’s face. Sky-blue eyes seemed softer now while Hermione slowly realized that Narcissa was talking about the book’s contents. “I understand why you like it,” she added.

“You do?” Hermione perked up at that, straightening her shoulders a bit and looking as hopeful as ever. 

“The setting is very nice, the characters are extremely well-written. Jane is a very likable girl, especially in comparison to this awful boy, John Reed,” Narcissa shook her head thoughtfully. For a second, Hermione thought the older witch would make this tsk-ing sound her sister was so notorious for, but that didn’t happen. “And I found myself genuinely enjoying Charlotte Bronte’s writing style. She is quite good.”

“She is one of my favorite authors!” Hermione said excitedly, jumping a little in her seat as her smile grew wider, turning into a full-blown grin now. She watched and heard as another soft chuckle escaped Narcissa’s lips. 

“You have a great taste then, Ms Nott,” Narcissa complimented her, the tiniest smile forming on her face. Somehow, it looked even more beautiful in the dim light coming from the fireplace, and Hermione found herself speechless, simply nodding as Narcissa looked down to the book. She caressed the page she stopped at, her long fingers running over the black letters on rough yellow-white paper. 

The tenderness she touched books with always managed to render Hermione quite thoughtful—she would never guess someone could love books as much as she did, but here was Narcissa, in the middle of this beautiful, magnificent library, with books from all around the world. Hermione knew Narcissa purchased and collected most of them personally, traveling to different parts of the planet. She remembered reading this article in  _ Witch Weekly _ in her fifth year about Narcissa spending a week in Australia just to meet the person who was selling this one tome on numerology Hermione couldn’t remember the name of. However, Hermione did remember how the reporter said that Narcissa “impressed all of Wizarding Sydney” and “left witches wanting to be her and wizards wanting to be with her.” 

She also recalled a few stories she would hear from Draco about Narcissa visiting various European countries—France, Italy, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands, and many more. It was one of the things Hermione wanted to do the most in her life, travel in search of something rare and extraordinary, something she loved and appreciated so much. It was also something she craved to ask Narcissa about—all the countries she visited, people she met, and the cultures she got to know and experience the joys of. 

Hermione shook her head, pulling herself out of her thoughts. She looked up to meet Narcissa’s eyes only to find that the woman was already studying her with an almost completely unreadable look, only the faintest hints of curiosity shining through all the walls Narcissa seemed to surround herself with at any time of the day. 

Hermione let out a small and awkward laugh, a shy smile gracing her features mere seconds later. Narcissa’s lips twitched in a not-quite-small at this, but before Hermione could study the look on her face better, the older woman focused back on the book, lowering her head a little. The brunette nodded to herself and leaned a bit forward, snatching the volume from the top of her stack. It was a book on arithmancy she wanted to read for a few months now. For some unfathomable reason, it was put into the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library, effectively costing Hermione the opportunity to study its pages. 

As she started reading, the book laid out in her lap, her back was ramrod straight, not even touching the back of the chair. About five minutes into the second chapter, Hermione felt a tingling sensation in the back of her neck that would make itself known every time she sat like that for longer than a few minutes. She wriggled in her seat a little, straightening her shoulders and desperately trying to find a more comfortable position as she turned the page. 

With the soft rustling of the pages and the crackling of the wood in the fireplace, came Narcissa’s voice, somewhat gentle and maybe even a little bit teasing, at least to Hermione’s ears. 

“Ms Nott, you do realize you can breathe out and relax, don’t you?” 

Hermione let out a nervous laugh, tearing her eyes away from the paragraph to look at Narcissa. “Of course.”

For her part, the older witch looked at her with something akin to a very sophisticated version of utter disbelief. That look was probably an ancestor of the famous  _ I shit you not _ expression Pansy could be sporting any minute of any day. 

“Sor—I apologize,” Hermione remembered her manners fairly quickly but still let herself slouch a little in the chair. Not enough for her posture to lose all the grace it should possess in the presence of someone like Narcissa Malfoy, but enough to dull an awful pain in the back of her neck. 

Narcissa hummed, looking at her thoughtfully, her blue eyes shining with something Hermione couldn’t really describe even if she tried to. “I realize these chairs are very comfortable and soft-looking, but I assure you, it won’t swallow you if you lean back in it.” 

“Right,” Hermione muttered as she used every ounce of her self-control to not roll her eyes at her idiotic behavior. She leaned back, just like Narcissa said. The second her back and head touched the chair, a soft, content sigh escaped her lips. She felt as if she was enveloped in the warmth of this chair right this second, swallowed by its comfort, not wanting to get out. 

As soon as the thought appeared in her mind, she looked at Narcissa, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. The older witch made a tiny motion with her right shoulder that Hermione was sure was  _ almost _ a shrug. It gave Hermione the answer she needed: these chairs were indeed charmed. That was a new addition, then; Hermione would be able to remember it if it was there before. 

She looked away from Narcissa, setting her eyes on one of the rarest tomes on arithmancy, a small smile dancing on her lips. Before she could really think this over, Hermione said, “A person who chose exactly these chairs is brilliant. A genius, I would say.”

“Oh?” Narcissa said, and even though Hermione couldn’t see it, she could bet there was a ghost of the smile on the older witch’s face. Somehow, the thought and the knowledge, and the way she was so sure about it made her feel warmer than the warmth coming from the fire and the enchanted chair. 

They kept reading in silence. Hermione knew she was still smiling, and not because of how interesting she found arithmancy to be at times. This version of Narcissa seemed familiar and completely unknown at the same time, and getting to see it, to know the older witch like this? It felt like a privilege, like the worth of all the family heirlooms combined together and all the gold in Gringotts. It felt like having an Outstanding for every school subject Hermione could possibly think of or like getting into her dream wizarding university in the future. It felt like opening an anonymous Christmas present a year ago to find a navy-blue leather-bound notebook, charmed so it would never run out of pages—even though her mother ended up burning it a few hours later, right in front of Hermione’s eyes. It felt like everything Hermione had always dreamed of, but combined together and intensified.

The silence was broken only by the rustling of the pages, the crackling of the firewood, and, most importantly, the soft chuckles Hermione would hear from Narcissa from time to time. At some point, she thought she even heard a very quiet scoff leaving the older witch’s lips, but as soon as she looked up to cast a quick glance at her, her face was as unreadable as ever. It seemed like the flames were dancing on her pale skin, making her seem warmer, softer, and her hair looked like it was actually  _ shining _ in the firelight. The line between elegance Narcissa possessed and the version of her she didn’t show very often seemed a blurred one, almost non-existent, especially when Narcissa got so immersed in the novel she would forget about keeping up appearances. 

And Hermione wasn’t  _ watching  _ the older woman on purpose, no. It just seemed like her eyes found Narcissa every few minutes on their own accord, as if she couldn’t possibly command her brain to stop doing that. 

When the number of pages she read reached forty, she looked up once again as Narcissa turned the page of her own book. But this time, when her eyes settled on the older witch’s face, they met warm blue ones. Hermione took in a sharp breath, her chest rising and then falling only when Narcissa’s lips twitched in a not-quite-smile, but in something impossibly close to it. Hermione swallowed as she watched Narcissa cast a quick glance at a page number and close the book. The older witch put it away on a coffee table between them and turned fully to Hermione, facing her. 

Hermione blinked once, twice, three times, a rare tome forgotten in her lap as she scrambled for something, anything to say. It was her luck that her brain, usually overflowing with thoughts, ideas, and words, was absolutely blank right now. Therefore, she just blinked one more time, openly staring at Narcissa…

…who laughed. 

It was a hushed sound, and a very soft one, too; if it didn’t happen in complete silence, Hermione wasn’t sure she would’ve caught it. This laugh was small, somehow carrying all the grace Narcissa possessed, but there was something effortless to it, something real. It didn’t sound like all those laughs Hermione had heard coming from her mother every time a social interaction was forced upon her. It wasn’t one of these laughs Hermione herself mastered perfectly over the past few years since she started accompanying her mother to typical pureblood dinners and balls. It was something real, something truly, undeniably unique. 

“Your eloquence is quite unmatched, Ms Nott,” Narcissa actually  _ teased _ her. 

Strangely enough, that helped Hermione collect herself fairly quickly. 

“My eloquence has nothing to do with it. What is unmatched is your undeniable talent at catching me off guard.” She smiled, widely and brightly. “So… How do you like Jane Eyre now? More or less than before I interrupted you?”

“Certainly more,” Narcissa admitted, casting a quick glance at the navy-blue copy of the novel. She seemed thoughtful to Hermione as if she was debating whether she should say something or not. Whatever it was, she decided to do it. “You know, it’s quite interesting… the Gateshead Hall Ms Bronte mentions?”

“What about it?” Hermione asked eagerly. 

“I’ve actually been there before, quite on a few occasions. However, its hostess is a lot nicer than Bronte’s Mrs Reed,” Narcissa mentioned casually. Still, there was a note of playfulness to it, as if she was acting utterly uninterested about the topic of their conversation just to make Hermione even more curious. If that was her plan, it was working perfectly.

“Wait, what?”

“It’s one of Paola’s residences. Yorkshire is not her most favorite part of England, but she quite enjoys spending her days there sometimes,” Narcissa said, and for a second, Hermione thought there was a double meaning in the older witch’s words she couldn’t quite grasp. “The red room Mrs Reed sent Jane to as a form of the punishment, the ghost Jane thinks she sees? It’s all quite real, my dear,” an endearment slipped out on its own, making Hermione’s breath hitch, “not fiction at all.” 

Hermione frowned, looking at the older witch with unbidden curiosity. She turned to Narcissa fully, completely forgetting about her book, and leaned forward in her chair, closing some distance between them, as if it could help her hear Narcissa better. 

“Do tell, Madame Malfoy. Please.”

“It was one of Paola’s great-great-step-grandfathers, Derek,” Narcissa began, tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair at a leisure pace. “It’s quite simple, actually. He tripped on the edge of the carpet in his bedroom, hit his head when he fell, and died as a result.”

“Mrs Zabini’s great-great-grandmother,” Hermione said thoughtfully, casting a quick glance to the fireplace as she tried to piece everything together. “Cornelia Zabini? The one who was rumored to have killed all of her husbands, just like Mrs Zabini is now?” she asked curiously, looking back at Narcissa. She thought this was the first time the information on all important pureblood families her mother made her learn was actually useful. 

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled with something unreadable, the hints of a small smile gracing her lips.

“Very good, Ms Nott. You still know the history of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families quite well, I see,” Narcissa pointed out, making the faintest blush appear on Hermione’s cheeks, and  _ that _ was borderline embarrassing. “Yes, Cornelia Zabini. I can’t speak about her other husbands, but that man, Derek? It wasn’t her, but just an unfortunate accident. However, he felt so angry his spirit remained forever chained not only to Gateshead Hall, but to the red room, too.”

Narcissa looked away for a second, and Hermione felt like the blonde witch wasn’t done talking yet. So she waited and watched as Narcissa hummed something incomprehensible, staring into the fire. The flames were dying out by now, not as strong as they have been before, but for some reason, the older woman did nothing to make them come alive again. Instead, ocean-blue eyes, still warm and soft around the edges, settled on Hermione barely a minute later, the look in them truly unreadable even for Hermione, who was always praised by others for noticing the unnoticeable. Somehow, it seemed like Narcissa was her only exception, the one and only person whose walls she couldn’t see past most of the time. 

“Paola said that her great-grandmother told everyone of how much blood there was in this room when she found her husband. She said that was precisely the reason everyone in the Wizarding Word referred to it as  _ the incident in the red room _ from the day the story hit the papers. They say that’s why the room wasn’t redecorated even after his tragic death,” Narcissa said, her voice sounding somewhat conspiratorial to Hermione’s ears, almost teasing. The older woman’s eyes were shining with something close to mischief Hermione was so used to seeing in Bellatrix’s onyx ones, but in Narcissa’s, it seemed dimmer, shallower. 

“But the truth is, the man just had an awful, absolutely horrible, truly  _ horrendous _ taste when it came to interior design,” Narcissa sighed wistfully after a long pause. “I’ve never seen that much red in my entire life. Red leather included.” 

She smirked slightly then, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. Some strands fell over her face as she asked disbelievingly, not being able to keep the smile off of her face, “And that’s it? That’s the story? The one mothers scare their sons with,  _ behave or you will end up like the husbands of the Zabini women? _ It’s that simple?”

“I’m afraid some things are not as interesting as they seem, Ms Nott,” Narcissa hummed, and Hermione thought she sensed a double meaning again, but this time, she felt like she had a hunch of what Narcissa was talking about. It seemed very unlikely, though—surely, Narcissa Malfoy couldn’t be talking about herself right now, calling herself uninteresting? 

As if reading her thoughts—that seemed to be the ability all of the Black sisters possessed—the older witch added, “That is why lowering your expectations about a certain person or situation is quite useful sometimes. You don’t get that disappointed as you could have if you didn’t expect much in the first place.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly to the lift, licking her lips nervously. A conversation took a turn Hermione never expected it to—that felt relatively close to sharing somewhat personal information, and Hermione absorbed it like a sponge as she tried to piece everything together. Even though not all of it, but some of it clicked almost immediately. 

It was all about expectations, was it not? It seemed like the pureblood society that was Narcissa’s and Hermione’s daily life put more and more expectations upon them with each passing day ever since they were born. 

Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect appearance. Later on, a perfect husband, a perfect household, and perfect life. Perfect reputation. Somehow, everything in their world circled around this stupid little world, putting entire mountains on their shoulders as they complied and did everything that was expected of them while carrying this weight on their shoulders, invisible to others. 

Sometimes it felt like drowning, sometimes it felt like a completely different kind of suffocating—Hermione couldn’t always tell. In her book, her mother was one of the strictest and meanest people she had ever known, but Hermione couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like, being raised by one and only Druella Black. 

As she thought of it, Bellatrix’s words from earlier evaded her mind. However vague they were, she suddenly knew that her professor had been talking about Druella never being satisfied with her daughters, no matter how picture-perfect they were, literally and figuratively. She imagined it was quite different for them all, but as she looked at Narcissa now, her hazel eyes impossibly soft as they met the blue ones, she remembered the 16-year-old girl from the picture with a ramrod-straight back, and a grace and elegance not many women possessed. She remembered, and she thought about how many expectations must have been put on her, especially right after Andromeda eloped, and Bellatrix and Narcissa were the only ones left. And maybe somewhere in this was the reason why Bellatrix’s much darker eyes always shone considerably brighter. 

Suddenly, it was so easy to see Narcissa’s words for what they had been; so easy to hear the parts left unsaid. Maybe Hermione had a concussion, after all, or some sort of hallucinations; perhaps she was going mad, but she could swear that between the lines she heard,  _ “Please, lower the expectations you have about me, so I won’t disappoint you in the future.” _

Just like that, Hermione felt her heart ache for Narcissa as she swallowed hard. She watched the older witch looking away somewhat shamefully as if she was already blaming herself for saying too much. Narcissa settled her eyes on the fire, playing with her silver diamond wedding ring without really realizing it. Hermione wanted to say something, anything, do something  _ right _ , but how could she? What was right, what was wrong? Where was the line? She could see it before she heard Narcissa’s words just a few minutes ago, but now this line Hermione couldn’t really give a name to was as blurry as watercolor paint. 

“There is nothing to lower. I don’t have any expectations,” Hermione found herself saying before she could really think it through. The words came out on their own and were more blurted out than said. 

She had never seen Narcissa turn her head that fast. 

“You don’t?” The older witch looked at her incredulously, as if she had just heard the most ridiculous, preposterous thing in the universe. 

Hermione simply shrugged, not tearing her eyes away from Narcissa’s as she smiled softly. “There is nothing to be disappointed about if you don’t really expect anything from anyone, Madame Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s lips parted. 

“Oh.” She blinked one time, then two. “But don’t you think it sounds a bit wrong, Ms Nott?” 

“It sounds quite right to me,” Hermione kept on. “In addition to that, I believe everyone is interesting in their way.”

“I don’t deny that. However—”

Hermione was probably possessed by Bellatrix Black herself as she interrupted Narcissa, softly shaking her head. 

“You were right in what you said—what was wrong was the meaning of your words. Everything… let’s say  _ people _ are not that interesting as they seem. But there is always more to a person than meets the eye, is there not?” she questioned, not really waiting for an answer. 

She still got a really thoughtful one. “There is.”

“There is,” Hermione repeated after her, still holding her gaze until Narcissa looked away a few seconds later. 

They hadn’t spoken for some time after that, just sat there in silence, both watching the dying flames as the lightning in the room got dimmer and dimmer with each passing second. The silence was a comfortable one, very welcoming, and maybe the warmth Hermione felt somewhere deep in her chest wasn’t the result of the charmed chair she was so comfortably seated in. Maybe, it was Narcissa agreeing with her on such an important matter, or Narcissa starting this conversation in the first place. There could be a lot of  _ maybes _ , Hermione thought, but all of them would inevitably lead her back to Narcissa. 

The older witch talked about expectations as if it was something decided, pre-planned, and, Hermione realized, as if she feared them, which was probably not too far away from the truth. And still, she could say without any doubt that Narcissa Malfoy was the most surprising, remarkable, and unexpected person Hermione had ever met. Even when things she said were written beforehand and spelled out so many times that they had a permanent residency in the back of the woman’s mind by now, the way Narcissa said them would always leave Hermione a little bit breathless, a little bit wondering, and a lot impressed. 

Narcissa talked about expectations while being the most unexpected person in Hermione’s life, the one the brunette deeply desired to interact more with. It felt like her wishes were coming true a little this night, but she would gladly exchange it for this thoughtful look on Narcissa’s face to turn into something brighter, lighter. 

“You know what I’m wondering?” she asked, turning her head to look at Narcissa, who did the same. Her eyebrows were raised questioningly, probably at the too formal tone and the words itself that would make Aurora Nott turn into her grave if she was dead and would surely kill Druella Black the second time. “How the  _ hell _ did Charlotte Bronte know about the red room and the ghost?” 

Narcissa chuckled softly, even though it sounded more like a laugh to Hermione’s ears. The older woman’s smile grew a little bit wider as she shook her head and tucked a strand of platinum-blonde hair behind her ear. Hermione cast a quick glance to a floor-length window not far away from them. The moon was shining brightly through the half-closed curtains, illuminating some bookshelves with its light. Then, her eyes went back to Narcissa immediately. The older witch looked like a celestial being like this, soft and slightly carefree, and honest to god a bit vulnerable, even if for just a second.

“Maybe she was there herself to witness it. Maybe she was there for Cornelia during that time or knew Derek very well,” Narcissa offered, a motion of her shoulders too elegant to be considered a simple  _ shrug _ . “Maybe it’s left for us to find out.”

It felt like an invitation, and it was exactly what it had been. Hermione smiled brightly and nodded a bit too eagerly, but she didn’t care enough to stop it or try to hide the excitement overflowing her at the mere idea of doing research like this with Narcissa. It was literature merging with history, which slipped the tiniest bit into criminology; it was wizarding and muggle cultures merging together. 

She wanted to say a lot of things, maybe even a little  _ too many _ , but settled for a quiet and hopeful, “Maybe it is.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched in a small smile. 

“I think I will invite Paola over for a cup of tea within these two weeks. She hadn’t been to Malfoy Manor in so long…” Narcissa trailed off suggestively, meeting Hermione’s eyes, and Hermione saw it. These tiny hints of mischief, a little bit brighter now than they were before. 

“Such a pity,” Hermione played along. “Malfoy Manor is a truly stunning place. I believe she should visit it as often as she is able to.”

Narcissa hummed in a silent agreement. 

“I will owl her first thing in the morning, then,” she said, and somehow, it sounded very much like a promise. “But now, I think both of us should go to sleep. It’s quite late. And I’m more than sure my sister kindly asked you to wait before exploring the library.” The older witch gave her a meaningful look. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell.” 

“This will be our little secret, then?” Hermione offered, her voice hopeful, her smile getting a bit unsure and shy. She hoped Narcissa would read between the lines, hear a  _ maybe we can do it more often, read together like that? _ that was left unsaid. 

Narcissa half-smiled and half-smirked then, holding Hermione’s gaze, and that told her everything she needed to know even before the older witch replied, “It will.” 


	5. your smile keeps me warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, the long-awaited chapter! i'm very behind on answering all the comments, but just know that i love and appreciate every single one of them so so much.
> 
> **as always, this is for helena, the biggest advocate against writing in books there is.**
> 
> to everyone else; if you want, you can share your thoughts about writing in books — i'm quite curious about what everyone thinks on that matter.

If Hermione had to describe the beginning of her next morning, she would choose the word  _ lazy _ without any doubt. It was leisure in its essence since she woke up around eight, spent about ten minutes in the bathroom, and dressed up in the comfiest jeans and the biggest sweater she could find. Before leaving the room, she stopped in front of a vanity and applied the hairspray her mother got from Paris to keep her locks in perfect condition at any given time of the day. 

Hermione hummed a tune to this one Christmas song she heard when she was getting books for Narcissa two days ago, a soft smile gracing her lips as soon as her mind returned to the older witch. As she walked from the vanity to the door, every detail of the last night flashed before her eyes; the sound of Narcissa’s laughter, how breathtaking she looked in this silk bathrobe and in the firelight, and all the little smiles Hermione got to see and soft chuckles she got to hear. She remembered every word of their conversation, every one of the teasing looks Narcissa had given her. Still, somehow, there was a deep-seated fear of everything being a fragment of her imagination, a simple dream. 

With every step that closed the distance between her and the door, the thought seemed more reasonable and believable than everything Hermione remembered. 

As soon as she opened the door, she jumped back a little and brought her hand to her chest, breathing out heavily. Bellatrix was standing right there, her hand hovering in mid-air, ready to knock. 

“Merlin, you almost scared me to death,” Hermione huffed, shaking her head as she tried to collect herself. 

“It’s all I’m doing these days, it seems,” Bellatrix smirked, lowering her hand. “And you wouldn’t be jumping at every turn and sound if you weren’t such a scaredy-cat.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. “What are you doing here? Decided to begin your morning with getting rid of Slytherin’s biggest competitor for the House Cup?” she teased as she closed the distance between them, her eyes glimmering. It was always a touchy subject for Bellatrix, the fact that ever since Hermione had started studying at Hogwarts, Ravenclaw would win the House Cup every year, effectively leaving Slytherin behind. 

Bellatrix’s eyes flashed dangerously as she took a step closer, trying to be imposing. However, that only made Hermione smile wider because of their height difference. Bellatrix was a bit shorter than her and looked more cute than intimidating every time she tried to be the ‘big evil professor Black’, as one of the first-year Gryffindors called her once. 

“Do not go there, pet,” she warned her. 

Hermione chuckled. 

“Already did. Do you want me to remind you that Slytherin is currently… what, thirty points behind Ravenclaw? Forty?” She looked up, tapping on her chin in a gesture of mocking thoughtfulness. 

Bellatrix pursed her lips as she hissed, “Thirty-seven.”

Hermione gasped and smiled, feigned surprise coloring every one of her sounds, movements, and words. 

“Ah, that’s right, thirty-seven. Wanna bet most of those were awarded to me?” She had to bite her inner cheek to keep herself from smiling too widely as she watched Bellatrix’s eyes narrow dangerously. Her professor was extremely competitive. Sometimes she rather enjoyed using it to her advantage. 

“Merlin help you when we’re back at Hogwarts, because those little points of yours—”

“There you two are!” Pansy huffed, appearing in Hermione’s eyeshot as she stopped a few steps behind Bellatrix. Her classic bob was styled perfectly, jet-black hair framing her pale face. She was dressed even more casually than Hermione, since Crabbe and Goyle were coming over shortly after breakfast to play a winter version of Quidditch.

“We have less than ten minutes left,” Pansy muttered as she closed the distance between them, grabbed Hermione’s hand, and yanked her forward, making her collide with a very shocked Bellatrix for a few seconds before she was pulled to the side. 

“Mione, believe me,” Pansy began saying very seriously as she led Hermione down the hall, Bellatrix’s quiet hissing and swearing words in German following their every step. Suddenly, Hermione’s morning didn’t seem lazy at all. “You don’t wanna be late for something Narcissa Malfoy hosts. Once Draco and I stayed up to watch this awful tv show you told us about, so I ended up being twenty minutes late for breakfast,” she babbled on, turning to look at Hermione every few seconds, still holding her hand. “I swear to Salazar, even my mother couldn’t muster a glare like this one. Not in a million years.”

“Parkinson, tell me,” Bellatrix’s voice came out of nowhere as she suddenly appeared right in front of them, making both of the girls stop dead in their tracks as Hermione tried to avoid another collision. “Were you born with that stick up your ass or…” she trailed off suggestively. A small smirk appeared on her lips as Pansy narrowed her eyes and then rolled them, tsk-ing in such a  _ Bellatrix _ way that Hermione had to blink twice and rewind the moment in her head a few times to make sure it was actually her best friend who did that and not their professor. 

Meanwhile, Bellatrix took Pansy’s hand away from where it was clutching her wrist, carefully nudging Hermione closer to her. It was different from the way Pansy did it earlier, softer and warmer. Bellatrix’s slim, long fingers were circling her wrist gently, almost weightlessly, but with such ease and familiarity as if the older witch had done it before countless times. That was probably why Hermione openly stared at the place where their hands touched.

“You always talk about this stick up my ass—maybe you should check if it’s really there,” Pansy shot back before her mind could catch up to what she was actually saying. 

Hermione simply gasped at the sheer audacity of her best friend, glaring at her and hoping the look she just gave her would be enough to shut Pansy up. She knew Pansy immensely enjoyed bickering and having this strange sort of banter with their professor, but surely there were  _ limits _ . 

“Oh, someone sounds so hopeful,” Bellatrix replied in a sing-song voice, her smirk growing wider. Apparently, there were no limits outside of the school grounds, at least when it came to these two. 

What truly baffled Hermione was the difference between everything Bellatrix was saying to Pansy and the softness of her fingertips on Hermione’s skin. Before she could give it more thought, though, Draco joined them out of nowhere—was it a family thing too, popping in here and there like that? Were there some hidden doors in the walls only the members of the Malfoy and Black families knew about? Hermione hoped not. (There surely were, though. She was almost one-hundred percent sure of it, but maybe, just to know she was right, she could ask Narcissa. Or Bellatrix. Probably Narcissa.)

“Mione, Pans, Aunt Bella,” Draco greeted them all very quickly, “we’re very close to being late, and I believe all of you know how much Mother  _ loves _ that,” he said, sarcasm lacing every letter of his every word. 

“My dearest nephew,” Bellatrix sighed wistfully, looking up as if trying to summon Merlin to help her suffer through the next few minutes of their conversation. “You’re so, so dramatic. You can even give your mother a run for her money, and you know she has a  _ lot _ of it.” She smirked right after that, and just like that, Hermione knew some sort of pun or joke was coming. “That’s probably because you take after your father in that regard. What do teenagers say these days? Such a  _ drama queen _ .”

“Oh god,” someone said. It must have been Draco, or maybe Pansy. Hell, Hermione couldn’t be sure she wasn’t the one to breathe it out as her eyes became comically large. 

The slightest tension was almost palpable, and in hopes of getting everyone to calm down, she chuckled and said, “Well, there’s some truth to it. You all surely remember Lucius’ reaction to the peacocks incident, don’t you?”

Bellatrix closed her eyes, swallowed noticeably, and licked her lips. They twitched, and Hermione knew that the older witch tried really hard to keep herself from smiling as she opened her eyes and looked at everyone with such nonchalance that even a statue would be proud. To be completely and utterly honest, Hermione was sure that Bellatrix was responsible for stressing out the peacocks and, in turn, Lucius Malfoy. The way she reacted every time someone mentioned it was enough proof for Hermione, but maybe she should ask Bellatrix about what had actually happened that day in the nearest future. For some reason, Hermione was sure Bellatrix would tell her almost anything at that point. 

Meanwhile, Pansy and Draco sighed and nodded in agreement, both of them looking too thoughtful, lips twitching a little as they probably remembered the entire ordeal too. Hermione’s chest tightened as she realized she was the only one here who didn’t get to witness everything but just heard of it from the others, and the smile slipped off her face for a few seconds. It was just enough for Bellatrix to notice. 

Bellatrix’s fingertips brushed Hermione’s wrist gently and comfortingly. She chuckled softly at the thought of the older witch, who was ready to jump at her over their little House Points debate a couple of minutes ago, being so gentle and caring right now. She turned her head to look at Bellatrix, hazel eyes meeting onyx ones almost immediately as if it was exactly what she was waiting for. 

As soon as Bellatrix hastily looked away, her expression changed just the tiniest bit, but Hermione couldn’t really pinpoint what exactly was different. The older witch’s eyes switched between Pansy and Draco a few times before she said, “In conclusion, Lucius is a drama queen and has been one since his first year, and I am always right, as everyone here very well knows.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.  _ Of course _ , Bellatrix would insert the point about her always being right into every conversation they had. She should probably start drawing a small star on a piece of paper every time that happened. By the end of the winter break, Hermione would get a charming sketch of a night sky filled with thousands of tiny little stars. 

“And another thing everyone seemed to forget about,” Bellatrix said, her smirk back in place as she made a theatrical pause right after that. Hermione gave her a look that just screamed  _ and who is the drama queen now? _ right at the older witch’s face. “The breakfast starts in… two minutes.”

Pansy half-screamed and half-hissed, “Holy shit,” as Draco actually glared at Bellatrix and said, “Why do you always have to do t—”

However, he didn’t finish his sentence because he was the one dragged away by Pansy this time. The pair sprinted down the hallway like a pair of little kids, and they disappeared from Hermione’s eyeshot in no time after turning the corner. 

“I have a hunch you planned all of this,” Hermione said as she narrowed her eyes, studying Bellatrix’s face and the way her smirk turned into a softer version of it, the one that Hermione had always seen directed at her. 

“Not  _ all _ of this, excuse you,” the older witch tsk-ed. “I didn’t even plan anything—just wanted to accompany you to the dining hall. But Parkinson got in the way with her squirrel-like behavior, so I just  _ had _ to improvise.”

Hermione hummed, eyeing her disapprovingly but still unable to keep the smile off her face. 

“ _ Had _ _ to _ . Of course.”

“Oh, didn’t you have fun, pet?” Bellatrix pouted, bringing Hermione closer to herself by tugging on her wrist gently. 

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t deny anything. Instead, she looked over Bellatrix’s shoulder and asked, “Aren’t we going to be late if we don’t hurry up, though?”

“Oh, we can be a bit late if we want to,” Bellatrix said nonchalantly as she started leading Hermione down the hallway. “I’m her older sister. You should know that I always get a pass for these things.” 

“Well, there are no passes in place for me,” Hermione reminded her as she began to walk faster. 

However, Bellatrix carefully slowed her down, still refusing to let go of her hand. 

“Don’t fret, pet,” she chuckled slightly. “You’re  _ you _ , and you’re with me. So I would say you have every pass in the universe. And as we very well know…” the older witch paused, casting a quick glance at Hermione, who didn’t even try to stifle a groan, “I’m always right.”

“Yeah, yeah, you are,” Hermione agreed with her, partly because she didn’t have it in her to have this argument once again, partly because there was some truth to Bellatrix’s words. What happened yesterday with her present for Narcissa was the only confirmation she needed. “But I’m actually rather hungry,” she admitted, looking at Bellatrix pointedly. 

She had been so nervous the previous evening, she ended up mostly picking at everything that was served but the roasted chicken, which meant about two meals and a dessert. The entire yesterday evening, Hermione was afraid she would actually throw up if she ate too much. That’s why the first thing she noticed in the morning was how undeniably hungry, almost even starved she was—she got somewhat used to the feasts they would have for breakfast, lunch, and dinner back at Hogwarts. Her mother was always a very excessive person when it came to things like these too. She felt like she could eat an elephant or, at the very least, a huge turkey with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. 

Bellatrix’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Oh? Merlin, why haven’t you said anything before?” the older witch asked reprimandingly as she quickened her steps, gently tugging at Hermione’s wrist so she would follow suit. 

They were downstairs almost in the blink of an eye, which seemed incredibly weird to Hermione. She remembered the second-floor hallway, then a lot of black, and suddenly, they were standing right in front of the dining hall’s massive door made of dark wood. Hermione blinked somewhat stupidly, shaking her head a little so her eyes would focus—her vision was a bit blurry just a second ago. Bellatrix was standing next to her, her chaotic mess of black curls faintly smelling of ginger and honey. Maybe Hermione was so tired she blacked out for a second while walking? Perhaps Bellatrix’s hair or robes were what she had seen in a blur; the older witch was wearing one of her signature black dresses paired with an elegant, daring burgundy corset.

Bellatrix put a hand on her lower back and gently pushed her towards a half-opened door. They entered the dining hall together, everyone’s heads turning to them almost immediately. Narcissa’s electric blue eyes were as piercing as ever as they settled on Hermione, making her shiver and swallow hard. She looked at the older woman from across the room and smiled somewhat sheepishly, mouthing  _ sorry _ . Narcissa’s gaze softened slightly as she simply nodded to her before looking at Bellatrix, her eyes narrowing immediately. 

“Bella,” she drawled, her voice loving and chastising at the same time. “You’re late. Again.” Her eyes flickered to Hermione for a few seconds, thoughtful, before settling back on her older sister. “And influencing Ms. Nott, I see.” 

“Cissy,” Bellatrix started in the same tone, but her voice had some more teasing notes to it, her smile quickly turning into a little smirk. “It’s just a few minutes. Aunt Walburga wanted to talk,” she lied easily—they hadn’t even passed the portrait by. Hermione thought she was close to burning a hole in Bellatrix’s head by now. “You know how chatty and how vocal in her opinions that woman can be. I simply couldn’t pass by without voicing mine.”

Bellatrix chuckled and shrugged, letting go of Hermione’s hand and lazily walking to the seat she occupied yesterday evening. She flopped down on the chair, no grace at all, and looked over a not-so-small feast on the table with hungry eyes. 

Narcissa shot her a disapproving look while Hermione walked to the chair next to Bellatrix’s. She sat down, putting a white napkin with an embroidered cursive “M” in the corner in her lap. Her gaze was immediately drawn to Narcissa, the need to say something as strong as ever. As if reading her thoughts, the older witch tore her eyes away from Bellatrix, who was currently putting at least four croissants on her plate, and settled them on Hermione a bit expectantly.

“We are terribly sorry for our tardiness, Madame Malfoy,” she said, smiling sheepishly and even a bit guiltily. Hermione cast a quick glance at Bellatrix. The older witch was staring at three different jams with more thoughtfulness than when she was grading essays, and Hermione had to physically stop herself from smiling by biting her inner cheek. Instead, she nudged the older woman’s leg with hers under the table. 

Bellatrix yelped quite audibly, drawing everyone’s attention to herself. Her head shot up as she turned it to the left to glare at Hermione. 

“Pet, what the—”

“ _ We _ are terribly sorry four our tardiness,” Hermione repeated, putting more emphasis on the words. She tilted her head to the left and pursed her lips, staring at the older witch’s eyes. “ _ Right _ , Bellatrix?”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes, obscured from Narcissa’s view by her wild curls, with her back turned to her little sister. However, either Pansy or Draco had seen it because Hermione heard someone choke on their food and then mutter  _ sorry _ a few seconds later. 

However, Bellatrix complied. She tsk-ed at Hermione but still turned to Narcissa, appearing to be sorry, even though it was entirely unconvincing. “Yeah, yeah, right. We are.  _ Terribly _ .” 

Hermione sighed, but at least that was better than nothing. Bellatrix came back to contemplating the jam selection, apparently having trouble choosing between cherry and strawberry ones. Meanwhile, Hermione looked up to meet Narcissa’s electric blue eyes; it seemed like the woman had been looking at her this entire time. She shivered and gave her another sheepish smile, hoping to somehow soften everything that had just transpired. But Narcissa’s expression was unreadable as ever, cold and distant, and Hermione was taken aback by it; by such a contrast from last night. And the crippling suspicion of everything being a silly dream and not reality grew stronger and stronger with each passing second as she proceeded to have breakfast. 

Hermione couldn’t even enjoy the exquisite selection of food presented and bits and pieces of it she chose for herself—so strong was her worry every time she would sneak a glance at Narcissa out of the corner of her eye. Pansy, Draco, and Cassandra discussed the upcoming Quidditch game while Astoria listened to every word coming out of their mouths and eagerly nodded to everything they said. Bellatrix was meticulously tearing apart her croissants and dipping small pieces she got into three different jams. She looked bored as hell and gazed lovingly at the pastry and the jam selection as if they were her only reason for being here at all. But every once in a while, the older witch would glance at her to make sure she was okay, and Hermione got reminded that  _ she _ was the real reason. It warmed her up from the inside even better than hot berry tea, and she drank at least three cups of it by the time the breakfast hour passed. 

As soon as Draco got some kind of a special nod from Narcissa, he stood up, Pansy and two other girls following suit. Hermione threw a quick glance at them. However, her eyes immediately went back to Narcissa, who didn’t look at her in the past hour at all, not even once. She was mostly eating and enjoying her black coffee the entire time, and there were also a few short conversations she had with Bellatrix. Narcissa also addressed Pansy quite a bit, talked with Astoria about Daphne, and whether she would be coming over during this winter break, too, and even asked Cassandra about Rodolphus, the girl’s father. Not to be overly dramatic, but the older witch had been pretty much ignoring her since Hermione apologized for being late.

All in all, Hermione was almost one-hundred percent sure the events of last night were one of her ridiculous, weird dreams, but this one time, it actually seemed more pleasant than the reality. 

“Mione, are you going?” Pansy called out, smirking. All of them were already at the door, ready to leave to prepare for Crabbe’s and Goyle’s arrival. Hermione never really liked them—actually, pretty much no one did. 

“No, I think I want to have another cup of tea and maybe a croissant with jam. Bellatrix seems to like those.” She and Pansy exchanged knowing looks and the tiniest smirks that hopefully went unnoticed by everyone else, but Hermione still felt a nudge to her side. When she turned to look at the older witch, Bellatrix was actually  _ glaring _ at her—well, trying to. The glare didn’t really work, probably due to a huge croissant in her right hand.

Hermione stared at it eloquently before her professor remembered herself and quickly put it away as if caught with her hands in a cookie jar. 

Pansy chuckled at this very audibly, the sound echoing off the dining hall walls, for some miraculous reason. Apparently, that was a very wrong thing to do because Bellatrix’s head shot up as she tried to burn a hole in Pansy with her onyx eyes. 

“Hermione here is very tired of dealing with two five-year-olds, so she would prefer some time at the adults’ table. Skadaddle, Parkinson.” 

Pansy just rolled her eyes, not taking it to heart, just like she always did when it came to her banter with Bellatrix. 

“Only you can be so grumpy just a few days before Christmas.” She shook her head, smiling a little to herself—Hermione just couldn’t understand for what reason. Pansy looked at her then, her smile widening. “We will be in Draco’s room until Crabbe and Goyle get there, and then we will come downstairs to get the Croissant Lover.”

Bellatrix scoffed. 

“I’m not a croissant—”

Before she could finish disputing Pansy’s words, the door to the dining hall was shut, quiet giggling coming from the other end. Hermione couldn’t help but let out a little laugh, which earned her a not-quite-a-glare from Bellatrix, whose eyes settled on her almost right away.

“I’m  _ not _ a croissant lover,” she repeated stubbornly. “I was just hungry, and it was the thing closest to me. That’s called  _ survival _ .”

“Uhum.” Hermione simply nodded as she took a sip of her berry tea, absolutely unconvinced. “Sure.” She threw a quick glance at the plate with bacon, and then at the fruit selection that was even closer to Bellatrix than aforementioned croissants. She looked up to find Narcissa eyeing her with something close to curiosity, but before Hermione could try to decipher that look further, the older witch hastily looked away. 

“I am  _ not _ ,” Bellatrix argued as she glared at Hermione, but this glare was more adorable and hilarious than anything else. 

It always amazed Hermione, the way her professor, intimidating and imposing on the outside, was actually one of the biggest softies and honest to Merlin  _ goofballs _ Hermione had ever met. She laughed at the thought, which gained her another glare from Bellatrix, but it made her laugh even more—her head fell back as she brought her hands to her stomach, her muscles aching from the intensity of her laugh. 

It took her a few seconds to realize, but someone was laughing with her. The laugh was quiet, melodic, and soft, like a symphony orchestra and raindrops falling on the grass in the middle of October. Hermione stopped laughing, looking up at Narcissa with some sort of awe in her hazel eyes. The older witch’s shoulders moved slightly as she shook her head, and even after she stopped laughing, it seemed like the sound was echoing off the walls of the dining room—Hermione could still hear it clearly, going away but as if wanting to stay for longer. It was the sound she knew, the sound she remembered from last night—the way Narcissa laughed when she realized Hermione wasn’t able to mutter a word, so shocked at being caught staring. 

If she remembered everything so clearly, then surely it wasn’t a dream, was it? How else Hermione’s heart would do this little skip as soon as her ears registered the sound of Narcissa’s laugh? 

Bellatrix cleared her throat rather loudly, and Hermione pulled herself out of her thoughts only to find both of the Black sisters’ eyes settled firmly on her. Bellatrix’s gaze was teasing, as always, but this time it had hints of curiosity at Hermione’s strange,  _ dreamy _ behavior. When she met Narcissa’s eyes, Hermione shivered involuntarily at the sheer  _ intensity _ of her gaze. It had more curiosity than Bellatrix’s, but it was a little softer somehow, as if Narcissa remembered the same thing Hermione couldn’t forget about since last night. 

The spell was broken as Narcissa looked away, focusing on her older sister and asking, “And who is acting like a five-year-old now, Bella? Even my seventeen-year-old son is more mature than you are,” she quipped, and then hastily added, the look of pure innocence in her sky-blue eyes, “on your best days.”

Bellatrix groaned. 

“You’re insufferable, Cissy.” She then turned to Hermione, her expression unreadable. “ _ That _ is why I prefer to spend Christmas in the castle, pet. At least there I have to deal only with a hammered Hooch, McGonagall on illegal amount of eggnog, Snape with his greasy hair, and a cheerful Hagrid with his stupid Christmas carols.”

“I’m quite offended at the fact that you prefer Severus’ company over mine,” Narcissa said calmly as she took a small sip of her black coffee. 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up at the same time as Bellatrix chuckled and rolled her eyes. 

“Honestly, sometimes you’re more dramatic than Lucius, and that’s saying something.”

Narcissa gasped, clearly feigning her offense. “Okay, that is simply  _ preposterous _ .”

“If it is, then I’m a bloody cactus,” Bellatrix shot back.

“I’m delighted to hear you think so highly of yourself, dear,” Narcissa licked her lips and brought a cup to them, and by the way her eyes got a little bit brighter, Hermione figured she did that just to hide her growing smile or a smirk. 

Bellatrix gulped, opened her mouth, and then closed it almost immediately. Her head turned to Hermione, eyes wide open, as she said, “I can’t believe it. How the  _ hell _ does she win literally  _ every _ argument we have? That’s not fair!”

Narcissa gave her a slightly chastising look, the slightest hints of mischief brimming in her electric blue eyes, making them shine brighter. She turned to look at Hermione then, something conspiratorially in her look as she whispered, “Adults’ table is not so different when Bellatrix is there, is it?”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that, bringing a hand to her mouth to somehow cover it. Judging by another glare she got from Bellatrix, this one more meaningful, she wasn’t really successful. 

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Anyway, I’m curious. What did they promise you for being a referee?” Hermione asked the question that kept nagging at her, hoping it would be a good enough distraction for the older witch. It was too benevolent of Bellatrix to agree to spend more time with her students out of school grounds, so there  _ must _ have been a reason. 

“Oh, they didn’t have to promise me anything,” Bellatrix smirked. “I simply offered my services to them. Parkinson was over the moon.” 

“It already sounds scary to me. What are you up to?” Hermione narrowed her eyes as she focused solely on Bellatrix, watching as the older witch bit her lip to keep herself from smiling evilly. Honestly, it looked like she was going through her master plan of torturing her nephew and his friends right this second. 

Suddenly, Hermione was incredibly happy she didn’t play Quidditch at all.

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about, pet,” Bellatrix replied in a sing-song voice. “But you can come out and watch everything unfold if you want. I can promise  _ lots _ of fun.”

Before she could reply to that, Narcissa chimed in, her voice clearly displeased with the hints of  _ something _ behind her words Hermione couldn’t quite grasp. 

“Bella, if the game ends with Draco spraining his wrist again, then Merlin help you, but I—”

“Don’t fret, my dear Cissy,” Bellatrix cut her off, her voice teasing but still a bit softer now. “No sprained wrists or broken bones, I promise. I will be much more careful than last year. But let kids have fun, fall in the snow a few times. It’s  _ Christmas _ time, after all.”

“Merlin, what are you gonna do to Pansy?” Hermione asked, a bit horrified.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Nothing she doesn’t already expect me to,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Maybe. Probably. We’ll see.” 

Before Narcissa or Hermione could say anything, they heard loud footsteps, and then the sound that indicated someone was sliding down the railing—if Hermione had to guess, it was one of her best friends. Narcissa’s eyebrows shot up as she recognized the sound, too, but she didn’t say anything. The herd of steps was followed by the loud bang as the front door was opened, and then it seemed like a mixture of voices filled the entire manor, echoing off its walls, from the hallway to the dining room and probably even to the second floor. 

Narcissa looked at Bellatrix, tilting her head slightly to the left, a small, barely-there smile on her face. “I think that’s your cue, Bella.”

Bellatrix threw a quick glance at the ancient grandfather clock in the corner of the room, letting a loud sigh. 

“These idiots can’t even do one thing right. It’s either too late or too early, somehow,” she said, feigning the better part of her annoyance as she stood up and grabbed one of the croissants. That made Narcissa and Hermione exchange knowing looks, and both of them simultaneously brought their cups to their lips to hide the slightest smirks that appeared there. 

However, before leaving, Bellatrix turned to look at Hermione, her gaze softening immediately. “Will you join us?” 

Hermione shook her head, letting out a little laugh. 

“Not in a million years, and you know it. You can tell Pansy the same thing. But I will come to watch it, though. Just to make sure you don’t turn my best friend into a snowflake,” she gave Bellatrix a meaningful look, the one that said  _ don’t you dare do that _ . 

It became apparent that Bellatrix interpreted it in an absolutely opposite way when a little evil smirk graced her lips. 

“I was thinking about a snowman, but you have some great ideas, pet. I must admit that a Ravenclaw mind comes in handy sometimes,” she drawled. “A snowflake will be much nicer.”

Hermione sighed. 

“Just be careful with your little war, okay?” she asked tentatively as she looked up, her voice becoming considerably softer. “And don’t forget to use the warming charms. I don’t want you to get thrown into the snow and freeze to death.” 

Bellatrix leaned a little bit closer as she whispered, “So dramatic.” 

She straightened up after that and strolled to the door. Before she left to join the loud commotion in the hallway, the older witch gave one last final wave to both Hermione and Narcissa. 

“Behave, you two.” 

Hermione gulped at the words, but before she could say anything, the door behind her professor was closed, effectively leaving Hermione alone with Narcissa Malfoy, of all people. 

They finished their breakfast in silence. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, more tense than anything, as if the air of the dining hall was filled with feelings hidden and the words left unsaid, which, Hermione supposed, was only reasonable considering everything. She knew she wasn’t engaging in a conversation like her mother would like her to purely because of the fear to find out that everything that happened last night actually didn’t. It was silly of her, maybe even somewhat foolish and bordering on completely idiotic, but the thought kept nagging at her, pulling all her strings from the inside. 

During these twenty minutes they spent in complete silence, Hermione sneaked so many glances at Narcissa that eventually, she lost the count. It was rather embarrassing; the way her eyes were drawn to the older witch every time she would hear a sound coming from her as Narcissa looked through the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. Her expression gave absolutely nothing away, but sometimes Hermione heard her scoff, which meant the news was probably pretty absurd. 

When the hand of the ancient grandfather clock moved to ten, all of the food and dirty dishes disappeared from the table, including a cup of tea Hermione had in her hand and a cup of coffee Narcissa was bringing to her lips. When the older witch tried to take a sip, still not looking away from the newspaper in her left hand, she wasn’t able to, so she frowned at that. She finally looked around, noticing that the table was completely cleaned out, and then her eyes settled on Hermione, who, of course, was smiling the entire time. 

Narcissa licked her lips not quite nervously but somewhat close to it. 

“I… must have lost the track of time. I apologize,” she said guiltily, and it was Hermione’s turn to furrow her eyebrows. “I will tell Dobby to make you another cup of tea. D—”

“There’s no need,” Hermione interrupted her quickly, leaning forward without actually meaning to. “It’s okay. I think I had enough berry tea for now. It was quite delicious, though. Cherry and strawberries?” she asked, her smile soft. 

Narcissa closed her mouth, then opened it, then closed again. It would be quite entertaining to watch if the older witch didn’t look so utterly confused—Hermione just couldn’t figure out why.

“And cranberries,” was the thing Narcissa chose to say, her voice somewhat distant as she continued to study Hermione carefully. 

“I loved it. Sweet, but not overly so,” she answered. “Were you planning on watching this snow massacre they’re holding?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Someone needs to keep an eye on them. Especially on my sister and Ms. Parkinson—sometimes it may seem like they hate each other. So competitive, year after year, a holiday after holiday,” Narcissa said, letting out a little laugh and shaking her head thoughtfully. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant French twist, and she looked much more composed than she did last night. Then again, it was only understandable. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” Hermione inquired, the corners of her lips quirking up and a sheepish, shy smile. 

Narcissa’s lips parted. Her frown was back in place, a thoughtful expression getting even more clouded, as if she was trying to figure something out and not quite succeeding. Hermione was ready to take her question back, but before she had the chance to, the older witch said, “I suppose not. We can watch it from the terrace in the library.”

Narcissa stood up after that, and Hermione followed suit, almost knocking off a chair. She cast a quick glance at Narcissa and prayed the older witch didn’t notice the way she tripped on the chair leg just a second ago, but judging by the way the corners of Narcissa’s lips twitched slightly, she totally did. Hermione felt her cheeks heating up just a little. That was probably why Hermione assured Narcissa that she was dressed warmly enough when the older woman asked about it. Narcissa was doubtful as ever, her eyebrow raised, but let it slide anyway as they strolled to the library. It took them about two or three minutes to get from the West Wing to the East one, and the comfortable, albeit a bit awkward silence that settled between them was only broken by a few talking portraits. (Thankfully, none of them was Walburga.)

As soon as the door to the library was closed behind them, it seemed like some kind of weight had fallen off Narcissa’s shoulders as she let out a breath Hermione couldn’t find any words to describe. The older witch seemed calmer now, more relaxed when she was surrounded by books. She came over to a fireplace, muttering a silent incantation Hermione couldn’t quite recognize, and the flames came to life, filling a spacious room with its dim, soft light. Narcissa moved closer to the curtains then, flicking her wrist, and Hermione watched them open slowly. She had to close her eyes and blink a few times —so bright it was outside, white snow reflecting a bright morning sun. 

Then, she came closer, her steps very slow before she was standing next to Narcissa, staring at the scenery before her. Pretty much everything from the gates to the Manor itself was covered in thick, white snow; the only clear spot was the frozen fountain, which was probably cleared by the elves every morning. The view in front of her looked like a painting, so detailed and somewhat even fairy-like, and Hermione found herself breathing out, “So beautiful.”

Narcissa simply hummed in agreement. 

“And quite cold, too.” She walked to the small closet in the left corner of the library, made of dark wood, and so fitting to the interior of the entire room that it seemed almost invisible to Hermione before Narcissa touched the handle and opened it. She took something out of it and walked back to Hermione, but when she looked over Narcissa’s shoulder, there was no closet in the corner of the room. 

Hermione blinked once, twice, then three times before she settled her eyes on Narcissa, who was watching her with already familiar hints of mischief in those electric blue eyes. However, before Hermione could bombard the older witch with about ten questions she already had, Narcissa handed her something, the tiniest but still a very soft smile on her face. 

When Hermione looked down, she saw an elegant black cloak, probably the most expensive she had ever seen. It was a little worn, though, but somehow, it only made the piece of clothing look even more beautiful. 

“A cloak?” Hermione asked incredulously. Didn’t she say that she wouldn’t be cold?

“It’s charmed, one of my spare ones for when I decide to take a walk in the gardens or read on the terrace,” Narcissa explained. “You can always take it off, but the charm on it is a very complicated and detailed one—it always adjusts to your body’s needs regarding temperature.”

“Thank you,” Hermione muttered as she took the cloak in her hands, the silky material soft to the touch. She put it on over her shoulders, noticing how she was immediately enveloped in warmth, much like with the chair last night. Was it some kind of an advanced charm only Narcissa knew? Hermione had lots of cloaks and charmed robes in her life, but this one even felt differently as she untucked her hair from under the hood, letting it fall over her shoulders. 

Narcissa put on hers, too; that one looked less worn and had a dark green shade to it, almost glowing in the light coming from the panoramic windows. 

“Would you be so kind as to pick up a book for me?” she asked before turning around and heading to the seating area, the one much like on the second floor. 

“Of course,” Hermione replied quickly. “Which one?”

Narcissa stopped in front of the round coffee table and threw a quick glance at Hermione over her shoulder. It was incredibly soft—maybe because of the firelight-cast shadows—and somewhat unreadable, the one Hermione hadn’t seen before. 

“The one I was reading last night. Jane Eyre.” 

Hermione felt so silly for even daring to think everything that happened the previous night was just a pleasant dream. She nodded eagerly, her grin wide, and ran to the elegant twisted staircase. She reached the second floor in no time and walked to the seating area when she heard Narcissa’s muffled voice downstairs—she was probably talking to Bellatrix or Draco, or any of the girls. 

Hermione looked over the chairs they both occupied last night and bit her lip at the thought of coming back here tonight, too. Her eyes settled on the coffee table made of dark wood, and she immediately spotted a navy-blue, worn copy of Jane Eyre she gave Narcissa yesterday. Hermione took it into her hands carefully, tenderly, even, and pressed it to her chest. As she was walking back to the staircase past the shelves, an interesting volume on transfiguration caught her eye, and she grabbed it for herself to read—she had always enjoyed this subject much more than arithmancy. 

Hermione came downstairs, mostly skipping through every other step. She looked around the first floor of the library, not noticing Narcissa anywhere. Her gaze then travelled to the terrace door, and she slowly walked up to it, opening it and peeking outside. Narcissa was talking to a house-elf a good distance from her, and Hermione studied her and the entire terrace. It was spacious—surely less than the library itself, but still big enough. It had the plants all over, dark green and so colorful compared to the white snow covering every surface outside the terrace. 

Hermione headed forward, her eyes going over a big wooden table and eight chairs, not even one snowflake on them—must’ve been protected by a special charm. She then noticed two chairs Narcissa was hovering over. They were somewhat similar to the ones on the second floor of the library, but these had thick, white furs draped over them, and each had a soft-looking blanket of a dark-green color thrown over the arm of the chair. Only when Hermione stopped a few steps away from the older witch did she notice that the table between the chairs, bigger and taller than the one in the library, was covered with sweets. There were also two cups and a navy-blue teapot. 

When Hermione’s eyes finally settled on Narcissa, the house-elf was nowhere to be found. The older witch turned around, and her lips parted as soon as electric blue eyes met hazel ones. The corners of Hermione’s lips quirked up in a small smile as she closed the distance between them and handed Narcissa the hardcover copy of Jane Eyre. 

“Your book, Madame Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Ms. Nott,” she replied as she took the book from Hermione, their hands not touching. “What did you choose for yourself this time?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the left to get a better look at the book that was still pressed to Hermione’s chest. 

“Oh, just a tome on transfiguration that caught my eye when I was passing by,” Hermione said, showing her the book. It was an exquisite copy, dark blue, the name written in a cursive, golden script that seemed to be shining brightly in the natural light. 

Narcissa hummed, a small, somewhat understanding smile gracing her lips. 

“Any chance your choice was based purely on the color scheme of the cover?” she asked, her tone clearly teasing.

Hermione looked down at the book in her hands and then up at Narcissa. She chuckled, for the hundredth time wondering why her subconscious sometimes made decisions for her. Most of the time, actually. The Ravenclaw color scheme was too much of a coincidence. To think of it, that wasn’t the first time something like that happened...

“Don’t tell a living soul,” she whispered playfully, leaning closer, as if trying to not be overheard. There was no one to hear them, though—the voices of others were so far away that Hermione couldn’t make out anything except for fits of laughter and annoyed screams, the latter probably coming from Bellatrix. “Especially your sister,” she added as an afterthought. “She will tease me about it for the rest of my laugh.” 

“Oh, I will keep it to myself, Ms. Nott,” Narcissa replied in the same tone, her sky-blue eyes suddenly shining brighter, maybe because of the light teasing in their interaction, or maybe because of the sunlight reflected from the blindingly white snow. “Besides, I wouldn’t worry about Bella if I were you. She probably noticed it long before you did,” the older witch paused, thoughtful, before adding much more quietly, “She seems to pay quite a lot of attention to you.” 

Hermione’s lips parted in surprise as she stared at the woman in front of her, trying to figure out what that meant. Narcissa looked deep in thought, but as soon as the reality caught up with her and she realized  _ what _ she had just said, she rushed to change the discussion topic before Hermione could ask or say anything. 

“I figured you’d want some warm tea, sweets, and maybe fruits and berries,” the older witch said, gesturing to the table next to them. She looked up, her eyes settling on dots in the distance that were Bellatrix, Draco, Pansy, and the others. Then, Narcissa looked back at Hermione. “Their winter Quidditch madness usually takes a few hours.”

“Is it longer than the usual game they would play at school?” Hermione asked. ‘Winter Quidditch’ was a category she wasn’t familiar with. 

“Yes, usually by an hour or two. All this snow has a lot of different ways to use it. Bella and Ms. Parkinson enjoy exploring as many of them as possible.”

Narcissa looked like she wanted to kindly roll her eyes right now, but, of course, she didn’t. Hermione found herself smiling anyway. 

“Well, then tea and sweets are just what we need. Thank you.” She dipped her head in a sign of gratitude and appreciation, some strands of hair falling over her eyes. She tucked them behind her ears. “Shall we?” she gestured to the fur-covered chairs, the corners of her lips quirking up in a small smile. 

Narcissa simply nodded, and they both sat down. Though ‘sitting down’ was quite an understatement for the older witch and, in turn, an overstatement for Hermione. Narcissa lowered herself into the chair elegantly and gracefully, just like she always did. However, Hermione had no idea what happened to her manners, but it looked like she flopped down on the chair, sinking into the thick furs. She pressed her back to it instantly, letting out a soft sigh as she settled the book in her lap and wiggled in her seat to find the most preferable position. 

“Quite comfortable, isn’t it?” Narcissa asked.

When Hermione turned her head to look at the older woman, there was a soft half-smile, half-smirk on her lips, and Hermione smiled back, nodding eagerly. 

“Like heaven. Pretty sure I could sleep here.” 

Narcissa let out a quiet laugh, tilting her head to the right and looking at Hermione with something akin to amusement. 

“I understand where you’re coming from. However, I do not support the initiative. Even considering all the warming and temperature regulation charms on the cloak and the chair, I can assure you that the queen-sized bed in your room will be twice as comfortable.”

A pout, the one that Hermione knew looked just like Bellatrix’s signature one, graced her features on its own accord. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at that, and Hermione tried to study the older witch’s expression until it became unreadable once again in the span of a few seconds. It amazed her, the way it seemed like there was some kind of switch in Narcissa’s mind that helped her change looks and expressions so quickly that a generally inattentive person wouldn’t even notice the slightest shift. But Hermione thrived on catching all the little details—that was one of the things her passion for knowledge taught her. 

So she watched as Narcissa picked up a copy of Jane Eyre from her lap and opened the book on the first pages. The older witch looked through a few until she found the right one, and Hermione tilted her head a little to the left and leaned a bit forward to see the number. The book was opened on page one hundred and twelve. That was a curious little detail—Hermione could swear that the page she had seen Narcissa close the novel on was eighty. The thought that Narcissa was so impressed by Charlotte Bronte’s writing and so interested in the story that she stayed up a little more in her bedroom to finish a chapter or two warmed Hermione up from the inside a thousand times more than the charmed cloak ever could. 

She didn’t realize she was smiling softly until Narcissa looked at her, one eyebrow raised elegantly. 

“What?”

Hermione hummed, her smile widening a little as she shook her head and said, “Nothing.” 

She paused, trying to decide whether mentioning what she thought about was a sign of bad manners or no. It probably was, especially according to her mother’s lessons. Hermione realized she didn’t really care about any of that right now. 

“I just noticed that the page number is quite different from where you stopped last night.” 

Narcissa looked down, then at Hermione, and Hermione saw the faintest blush cover the older woman’s cheeks as she muttered an absent-minded, “Oh.” 

It was quite adorable, watching Narcissa like this. A little bit confused, but relaxed, almost even carefree. Maybe Hermione was overthinking it, and the blush appeared on her face because of the cold. Maybe she wasn’t wrong, and Narcissa Malfoy felt a little bit embarrassed at being caught. When they parted their ways in the hallway last night, they both explicitly stated they would go to sleep right away. It turned out Narcissa had a slightly different plan. 

“I was very immersed in the story,” Narcissa tried to explain somewhat hastily. 

Hermione bit her lower lip to stop herself from smiling even wider as she nodded and muttered a quiet, “Uhum.”

“And it’s a disgrace to literature to stop reading mid-chapter and leave it like that, really,” Narcissa huffed, waving her hand absent-mindedly. 

“Oh, yes, that I can agree with,” Hermione said as she kept nodding, looking entirely unconvinced. 

“And the chapters always end with this  _ moment _ —you just want to keep reading to find out what happens next, and—”

Hermione saw Narcissa getting all worked up as she looked away. Before the older witch could wind herself up any further, Hermione quickly interrupted what turned into almost-rambling. 

“Madame Malfoy,” she started, the name falling from her lips gently. It felt like it was caught by the wind in mid-air and carried right to Narcissa’s ears, this gentle and melodic flow of syllables making the older witch snap her mouth shut and look at Hermione once again. “I don’t think I ever related to something so much,” she admitted. “Once or twice, I read  _ Jane Eyre _ in one go. This September was the last time, actually.” 

“Oh?” 

Hermione nodded. 

“I had just bought a new edition—an exquisite one, really—and felt this urge to read a few pages before going to sleep. And suddenly, the next thing I know is that it’s already seven in the morning, and everyone in the dormitory is getting ready to start their day,” she chuckled. “I was so fascinated with reading I wouldn’t even notice if one of my roommates didn’t scream at her supposed friend. Can you imagine?”

Narcissa smirked knowingly. “I can, actually.”

“Oh, do tell,” Hermione said, her eyes brightening up immediately as she turned fully to Narcissa. She propped her chin on her hand, focusing solely on Narcissa. “Which book was it?” 

That seemed to throw the older witch off for a few seconds as she simply stared at Hermione, blinking once, then twice, and then three times. She shook her head after that as if pulling herself out of her thoughts that were unknown to Hermione, hidden deep within, behind these walls around the woman that seemed thicker than ice. 

“A History of Magic,” Narcissa admitted somewhat shyly.

“The first edition, from Bathilda Bagshot’s hands,” Hermione added, letting out a dreamy sigh. What would she do for that book… 

“Oh, you heard about that?” the older witch asked, and to Hermione’s ears, it sounded almost close to self-conscious, but she let it slide. 

“A bit later than I would like to, but yes, I did. My father told me when I visited Nott Residence last month,” Hermione said before she could think her words over. However, as soon as they left her lips, they seemed to freeze in mid-air, the reason for her visit home immediately becoming abundantly clear to Narcissa, her shoulders tensing. 

“Your visit home,” she repeated thoughtfully, closing the book. She then turned to Hermione, tilting her head to the left and narrowing her eyes. “How did it go?” The way Narcissa looked at her felt as if the older witch was trying to access her inner lie-detector, her blue eyes as piercing as ever. 

Hermione swallowed. 

“It went just like I expected,” she replied vaguely. “Mother was… her usual self,” she said, making a long pause in the middle. Narcissa pursed her lips at that, clearly remembering her own experience with Aurora Nott—the one Hermione knew existed, but she could never guess what had occurred between the two. “I was happy to see my dad, though. We talked about some things, and about you, too. And that’s about it—the visit was a really short one.”

Hermione didn’t tell Narcissa that she appeared in the living room almost frantic, accusing her parents right away; that she actually  _ screamed _ at her mother, something she didn’t do very often. She didn’t tell Narcissa about admitting her lack of romantic love for Draco, and her mother calling the entire concept of love preposterous. She didn’t tell the older witch how she could never quite stand up to her intimidating, manipulative mother, and how she would always seek help from her father but never get it. 

Hermione didn’t tell Narcissa any of that, but they looked into each other’s eyes, and it felt like everything left unsaid was hanging in the distance between them. Narcissa smiled softly, almost sadly, and Hermione suddenly knew that she  _ knew _ . She had no idea to what extent, but it was clear as a bright blue sky above them.

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, simply watching, studying each other. It felt like playing chess or a difficult mind-game, but it was comfortable in the difficulty with which Hermione tried to understand what exactly Narcissa could be thinking about. The look in her hypnotic blue eyes was guarded, but Hermione still found herself being completely lost in it, even without knowing what exactly it meant. 

She thought that from a distance, they looked like the words left unsaid and feelings that stayed hidden. Like autumn grass buried under thick layers of snow, or meticulously wrapped colorful presents tucked under a Christmas tree from prying eyes of the kids, or shining pearls in the depths of the sea.

The spell was broken when Narcissa looked away, staring at the distance, at the people who were just black dots on white snow. She tapped on the arm of the chair and hummed thoughtfully as Hermione let out a loud sigh, for some reason not being able to take her eyes off of the older witch. Everything about her seemed to be mesmerizing; even the simplest things like her left profile or her sharp jawline and cheekbones that looked like they could cut an ice cube in half. 

However, the expression on Narcissa’s face was much more fascinating than any of her features. It was not just relaxed like she had previously noticed, but almost even peaceful. To Hermione, this thoughtfulness on the older woman’s face came from carefully flicking through her memories as if they were pages of the book. To Hermione, it looked like Narcissa considered sharing something personal but was unsure of her decision. 

She couldn’t help but smile, and when Narcissa had finally looked at her again, her expression shifted instantly, becoming more open. It was the tiniest slip, the one that was covered less than twenty seconds later, but Hermione had seen the slightest confusion and shock that graced the older witch’s features as soon as she had seen her supportive, encouraging smile. That had the desired effect—it seemed to help Narcissa make a decision Hermione hoped she would.

“Not that edition,” she said, still a bit unsure. 

“Hmm?” Hermione frowned a little, not quite following. 

“Not the one I acquired from Bathilda recently,” Narcissa specified, making Hermione raise her eyebrows in a silent question. “It happened a year before I started my education at Hogwarts as a first-year student, shortly after Bella, Andy, our parents and I all visited Diagon Alley to get everything we could possibly need. Of course, each one of us had brand new textbooks,” Narcissa chuckled. As if anything else could be expected from the most ancient and notorious House of Black. “But I already favored one—Bella’s, the one she bought before her first year.”

“Oh?” 

Narcissa hummed, smiling absent-mindedly. 

“When I was ten, I used to sneak into her room at night and steal her copy of A History of Hogwarts __ so I could read. One night, I got a bit carried away, and… not finished it all, of course. It’s enormous,” she said as Hermione nodded in understanding. “I read quite a lot and got so engrossed in reading I forgot to go to sleep or bring the book back to its rightful place.”

“And Bellatrix found you like this in the morning?”

“No.” The smile slipped off Narcissa’s face immediately, her expression darkening as her jaw tightened. Still, she remained calm and collected as she spoke up, her voice considerably lower as if caught in her throat. “My mother did.”

Hermione took in a sharp breath, tons of questions she had before slowly dying down. She could imagine how everything unfolded after that—thankfully, she had never had the  _ pleasure _ of meeting Druella Black, but her strictness was well-known amongst all Sacred Twenty-Eight families. 

When Hermione focused back on Narcissa again, she didn’t look peaceful anymore; the slightest hints of relaxation were gone, caught up in the wind, and carried away to another continent, the tension firmly settling in. Hermione chewed on her lower lip as she watched Narcissa clutch the book in her lap tighter, so different from her usual gentle hold. It seemed like the older woman was sinking into her memories against her will with every passing second. Hermione knew what that could feel like—most of the time, it felt like drowning. 

“Madame Malfoy,” Hermione began softly, the corners of her lips twitching in a soft, hopeful smile. 

Narcissa’s head snapped to her as if it was exactly what she had been waiting for, hoping for, as she asked, “Yes, Ms. Nott?” 

There was something unfamiliar in the older woman’s voice as if it was stripped from all the pretense for the very first time, as if there was no façade Narcissa was hiding behind. 

“Have you already had a chance to compose a letter to Mrs. Zabini? To invite her over for a cup of tea?” Hermione inquired, being almost one-hundred percent sure she would get a negative answer. 

Narcissa shook her head curtly. “No, not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Would you mind if we did that now? I can’t wait to actually meet her. I’m afraid the few times I had seen her at the events hosted by my mother, I didn’t get a chance to talk to her,” Hermione said. Her voice was measured and quieter than usual, and her words felt softer than cashmere on her tongue. 

Narcissa suddenly reminded her of a beautiful, caged bird, locked up in a cell of expectations put on her since the day she was born. And even though it looked like Hermione’s own from the outside, she could see the differences, all the contrast in how Narcissa acted every day, and Hermione didn’t. 

“Of course, if you’d like,” Narcissa answered slowly, thoughtfully, carefully, as if not quite sure of what Hermione was leading up to. She tilted her head, muttered quite a long incantation that sounded honest to Merlin just like Latin to Hermione’s ears, and flicked her wrist in the most elegant way possible. 

Hermione watched as some of the plates disappeared from the table, effectively replaced by a stack of parchment, a quill, and a jar of pitch-black ink. Narcissa leaned over the arm of the chair and took the quill in her hands, rolling it between her fingers absent-mindedly before she dipped it in ink. 

“I didn’t have a chance to mention it before, but your handwriting is just… exquisite,” Hermione breathed out, smiling sheepishly. She was ready to punch herself in the face as soon as her mind caught up to what she had just said, what must’ve been the weirdest compliment Narcissa Malfoy had heard in her entire life. 

The older witch looked up, her lips parted and eyes wide open, as if Hermione had just openly declared her undying love for Narcissa. It felt like she was seconds away from blurting out a self-conscious  _ really? _ or something equally simple in its essence but still so meaningful. Hermione could see the way Narcissa physically stopped herself from doing that by pursing her lips, forming them into a tight smile that somehow still looked more real than the ones she gave Astoria or Cassandra yesterday or today during breakfast. 

“Thank you, Ms. Nott. I’m sure yours is quite nice, too,” Narcissa chose to answer. 

Hermione let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. 

“Well, it depends. It can be quite beautiful in certain circumstances, but most of the time, it’s chicken scratch.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her hand brushing the soft material of the cloak’s hood afterward. “Especially when I make notes in books—I try to fit as much information as I possibly can, so I have to make the letters a lot smaller. That doesn’t do much for the beauty of my handwriting.”

At first, Narcissa didn’t say anything; she simply stared at Hermione, for the lack of a better word. She blinked once, then twice, then three times, as if trying really hard to process all the pieces of information she was just given. Hermione lost count sometime after Narcissa’s eighth blink, simply watching the older woman watch her. The look on the older witch’s face was shocked; she looked like Hermione just told her that she murdered one of her sisters, her son, or her already dead mother. 

“What? Hermione asked after at least five minutes of complete silence, smiling nervously. 

“You make notes in books,” Narcissa drawled, looking at Hermione as if she had grown a third head over the past five minutes. 

“Yes?” she replied, the statement turning into question on its own. 

“You make notes. In books,” the older witch repeated, slower this time, as if still trying to process. “Meaning that… oh,” she breathed out, her features softening as she seemed to come to another conclusion. “Do you use these colorful sticky little notes muggles invented? Post-its, if I’m not mistaken? Those can come in handy, or so I heard. Andromeda uses them all the time—her house in London is just…  _ drowning _ in them, actually. They’re absolutely everywhere.” 

“One of my roommates gave me a huge pack of blue post-its during our gift exchange last Christmas,” Hermione told her, smiling at the memory. They established a lovely tradition between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, with a few students from Gryffindor and Slytherin joining every year. “But no, I don’t use them to make notes in books.”

The peacefulness that seemed to come back to Narcissa’s expression seconds before disappeared even more unexpectedly than it appeared, making Hermione blink stupidly at such a rapid shift. 

“You make notes in books by… writing in books?” Narcissa repeated, for the lack of a better word, honest to god  _ dumbly,  _ her eyes wide open in shock. “You write in books. With quills. Using ink. You write on the pages?”

Hermione frowned, completely and utterly lost. 

“Yes?” she said, just a few seconds away from laughing hysterically. “I do?” 

Narcissa let out a loud sigh, her gaze hardening immediately as she stared right into Hermione’s hazel eyes, blue ones more piercing than they had ever been before. Hermione tried to analyze everything she had just said to find what exactly she did wrong, but there was literally  _ nothing _ . 

“That is,” Narcissa said as calmly as she could, the look of the thin-veiled disgust on her face, “simply  _ monstrous _ . Terrible, appalling, horrific—”

Hermione watched and listened to Narcissa list all the synonyms she could remember, and oh, there were quite a lot of them. But the seriousness, the passion with which the older woman talked about what Hermione did as if she had broken international wizarding law and was sent to Azkaban for life imprisonment, was simply… adorable, for the lack of a better word. 

Before Hermione could register herself doing that, her head fell back as she laughed, and laughed, and laughed. The sound of her laughter was ringing in her own ears, and it seemed like it was picked up by the wind and lifted up, up and away, until it filled the entire territory of the Malfoy Manor; the self-made Quidditch field, gardens, and the stables, the tiny house next to the lake, all the rooms and hallways and secret passageways Hermione was convinced existed. 

When she finally calmed down and stopped laughing, she turned to look at Narcissa, the widest grin ever plastered across her face as she shook her head disbelievingly. However, the older witch looked appalled at such a reaction, her lips parted and eyes even wider than Hermione’s grin. The brunette found herself thinking that very few people acted like this in front of Narcissa Malfoy, if any. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized hastily, trying to remember at least  _ some _ of her manners. Quite unsuccessfully, since she quietly laughed a bit more right after her apology. “Sorry, it’s just—I thought I killed someone,” Hermione admitted, making Narcissa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, exactly!” she exclaimed, waving her hand in the older witch’s direction. “You looked at me like I killed someone, or broke the law, or told you I would go to your annual New Year Ball completely naked. And it was just because I told you I make notes on what I read by writing in books?” She shook her head, chuckling softly. “Madame Malfoy, you are… honestly, I have no words. In the best way.”

Narcissa stared at her for at least twenty more seconds, but she recovered rather quickly this time, especially compared to the last one. 

“Well, it’s me who has absolutely no words for you after I found out about your  _ monstrous _ way of—”

Hermione couldn’t help it and started laughing again, covering her mouth with her right hand right away. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, taking away her hand as she kept smiling. “Is being so hilariously dramatic comes from being a Black? Or is it some Curse of the Malfoy family?” she asked teasingly, leaning forward to whisper the last part. “Of course, I’m asking just because I’m concerned about my future.”

“Of course you are,” Narcissa smirked, shaking her head disbelievingly. She smiled then, but the smile looked a little like a smirk, more teasing than anything. “But I’m afraid I can’t give you an answer to your question. This is classified information.”

“Pretty sure I already know the answer.”

Hermione gave the older witch a meaningful look and saw the effort it took her not to roll her eyes. 

“No, but  _ writing in books _ —” Narcissa began out of nowhere about thirty seconds later, sounding absolutely disturbed as if it was a personal offense to her. 

Hermione let out a quiet groan, letting her head fall back. She looked at the bright morning sky as if asking the heavens for help in dealing with this stubborn, elegant, smart woman Hermione couldn’t seem to get out of her mind. As the thought settled inside of her, she looked back at Narcissa, narrowed her eyes, and asked, “You won’t let me live this one down, will you?”

“ _ Never _ ,” Narcissa said firmly. “I will forever remember that  _ horrendous _ habit you somehow developed.” She paused then, thoughtfully tapping on the arm of her chair. The older witch looked away only for her bright blue eyes, hints of mischief so clearly evident in them, to settle back on Hermione mere seconds later. “Maybe I should include it in my daily dinner toast.”

Hermione covered her face with her hands for a few seconds. 

“Please don’t.”

“Such a good idea,” Narcissa kept teasing her, pretending to be actually thinking it over. “I will have to make a list of advantages and disadvantages. This parchment will come in handy.” 

Hermione watched as a small smile on Narcissa’s face became wider, more relaxed, and carefree. There was no tension in her shoulders or jaw anymore; Narcissa looked like she was back to this state of peacefulness she seemed to be in before she mentioned her mother. It felt somewhat magical that Hermione sharing something brought them to this moment—to soft, content smiles and happy grins, to the comfortable silence settled between them, and to the way Narcissa’s eyes seemed to shine brighter with every glance Hermione cast at her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! 
> 
> My tumblr is [evadwrites](https://evadwrites.tumblr.com).  
> My twitter is [evadwrites](https://twitter.com/evadwrites).
> 
> (yes. i know. i’m _that_ original with my usernames.)


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